


Retired Prometheus

by limeta



Series: The Gods, Prometheus, and Hercules [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abraxas Malfoy has 125 peafowls, Complicated Relationships, Dark Past, Mentor Voldemort (Harry Potter), Multi, Redemption in the making, Secret Identity, Student Hermione Granger, This is just an ode to the messed up dynamic Tom and Abraxas have I feel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-14
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 01:00:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 60
Words: 372,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21718873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/limeta/pseuds/limeta
Summary: The world believes Lord Voldemort's been dead since 1981. He wishes for it to stay that way, thank you. It is 1998, now, and Hermione Granger signs up for an international mentorship program as a stepping stone for her after Hogwarts life. Draco Malfoy, never to be one-upped, signs up for the same program and scores Gilderoy Lockhart as his mentor, knowing he is Hermione's first choice. Meanwhile, Hermione is stuck with some obscure, hermit NOBODY that can talk to snakes.Ugh.Her life is the worst.Or:Hermione Granger has no idea what she has gotten herself into, all while Tom Riddle plays an American persona very,verybadly. Not long into their mentorship, the anonymity of Tom Riddle fades and he must face consequences for his crimes.OR:Abraxas Malfoy loves Tom Riddle. Even though it is very difficult to do so.
Relationships: Abraxas Malfoy/Tom Riddle, Hermione Granger & Abraxas Malfoy, Hermione Granger & Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger & Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Series: The Gods, Prometheus, and Hercules [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1629661
Comments: 385
Kudos: 191





	1. Nobody

Lord Voldemort was a fresh stain in everyone's mind, but he was just that: a stain people were carefully washing away and trying to forget. Because Harry Potter, Boy Who Lived, killed Lord Voldemort in 1981.

It was 1998 and there was no sign of the dark wizard. He was gone. Every year that passed made Voldemort easier to say, easier to rationalize and never let happen again. Those that had lost loved ones could process and mourn in peace. Children could grow without fear of war looming over their heads.

Purebloods prejudiced against muggleborns had to change their way of thinking if they wanted to continue prospering in the new age. Muggleborns became equal to purebloods, thanks to Albus Dumbledore's pro-muggleborn politics. Dumbledore fought for equality and used Hermione Granger, Golden Girl, Brightest Witch of Her Age, as his figurehead. All she had to do was do well in school, be an example for everyone to follow, and manage not to strangle Draco Malfoy.

''I'm going to kill him!'' Hermione said and held her vine wood wand tightly, nearly breaking it. Her frizzy hair rose with each step she took towards the Slytherin common room. Pansy followed hastily and listened. ''The nerve! The gall! That pompous, irreverent fink will pay!"

"Not because he made me believe we were friends or anything, Parkinson,'' she continued. Pansy didn't dare interrupt the goldmine which was a fight between the two most academically acclaimed Hogwarts nerds, ''He's a rich bastard and I'm too familiar with rich bastards. But I won't stand for cheating and unfair application standards and - THAT APPRENTICESHIP SHOULD HAVE BEEN _MINE_!"

Pansy went to say something. She was cut off.

"But no! He just had to have his family meddle in everything. Just because you can pull strings, Pansy, doesn't mean that you _should_.''

Hermione was the only one that Draco Malfoy couldn't beat academically for all seven years of their Hogwarts education. This put her in a more favourable position with a lot of mentorship programs some post-graduates participated in. A lot of people who weren't prejudiced against muggleborns were hoping to have Hermione be their apprentice.

This ticked Malfoy off pretty badly. Hermione almost wanted to say it angered him more than Harry beating him at Quidditch, but she knew better.

When classes got harder in sixth year, Hermione and Draco tentatively became friends because nobody could keep up with them. To say they dominated the Hogwarts playing field would be putting it mildly. People feared their prowess. However, they feared the drama each of their fall outs brought more.

''So, Granger.'' Draco had said like the snake he was, pretending to be nonchalant while all he did was calculate. She should not have trusted that pretentious, sleazy aristocrat. ''Who would you most want to apprentice to?'

''Gilderoy Lockhart.'' Hermione had said without a moment's hesitation, nose buried in an old tome seeping with magic. Both of them had gotten passes to the Restricted Section and then they took every advantage of reading until their eyes popped.

Both had twelve OWLS.

Though, Hermione had _one_ NEWT more than him.

Which made her the better candidate for apprenticeships. She could choose and she had chosen Gilderoy Lockhart. Her one, singular, titular, most important dream was supposed to come true.

''You're exaggerating.'' Pansy Parkinson calmly said and brought Hermione back to the present.

''Parkinson, I will burn him on a bonfire made of my mistakes. He may be the primus inter pares of them all.'' Hermione's voice was like fire without wind, calm, but still dangerous.

Pansy rolled her eyes at the Gryffindor's dramatic behaviour. ''Not everything can be handed to you, Granger. Perhaps Lockhart preferred a Malfoy over a muggleborn.''

''That apprenticeship was _mine_ , Parkinson.'' She swiped her wand as she crossed through a corridor full of children, tumbling them to the side to allow both graduates passageway.

''You just asked Dumbledore, the coot probably didn't relay your plea.'' Pansy, ever reasonable, reasoned.

''It was a sure thing.'' Hermione hissed and her whole hair rose, each lock sizzling with magic. Her eyes widened in realisation and hurt that angry tears welled in her eyes. But she wouldn't dare shed them for someone like that snobbish, _irreverent **arsehole**_!

They reached the Slytherin dorm and Pansy opened it with her password.

''I have no more use of you, Pansy. You may leave.'' Hermione dismissed.

Pansy remained where she was. ''Oh, Granger, you misunderstand now as you usually do Slytherin matters. I _want_ to see this.''

The Gryffindor sighed. ''So be it.'' The two entered the common room and instantly in their vision aligned a man wearing graduation robes. A blond, dead man.

''Pansy, how could you lead her to this sacred place?!'' Draco Malfoy yelled and ducked cover behind a leather couch. He took out his wand and waited for Hermione to strike. Hermione saw this as him admitting guilt.

''Which one of them did you beg for my internship, Malfoy?'' Hermione walked over to the couch and asked again, this time her voice darker. ''Do I have to attack an old, sick man? Or perhaps it was your father who bribed your way into Lockhart's outstretched arms?''

''Hermione, you're angry and you're probably not thinking straight-''

_''Which one of them did you beg?''_

''My grandfather, _OK_.'' Draco admitted. It pained him to do so, but lying would have only made things worse.

Pansy sat in an armchair that gave her the best view and relished in her ex-boyfriend's blunder.

''Fucking Abraxas, _seriously_?''

"This is really important to me, Granger."

She gritted her teeth and aimed the tip of her wand at Draco Malfoy's ashen face. ''How could you? I told you who I would like to apprentice to in CONFIDENCE and BAM'' –she slammed her wand to the ground and there was a loud blast of noise—''you become Gilderoy Lockhart's apprentice instead of me!? Malfoy, I thought we were friends!''

At least, Hermione thought as she watched Malfoy watching for any sign of escape – at least he didn't lie.

''This is an opportunity I can't let pass me by, Granger.'' Draco confessed hurriedly, watching for signs of escape, tumbling words out of his mouth like a frantic man. ''I was supposed to have some American hermit living in Southeastern Europe. That would have been suicide for my image! I wouldn't be taken seriously, Hermione. Gilderoy Lockhart took down a vampire human trafficking ring with a single stake and his wits! He fought a bloody _Basilisk_ , Hermione! It's nothing personal-''

''BULL-'' She sent a stinging hex right at his forehead. ''-SHIT!''

It hit. He always had poorer shield reflexes than she.

''I can't believe you hit me in the FACE!''

''Oh, put a glamour over it!''

''Well, I'll bloody have to!'' Draco chanced a glance in the nearby mirror and saw a jagged mark on his forehead. He couldn't prove it, but he had a feeling that Hermione had made him look like Potter on purpose.

Pansy summoned some popcorn from her dorm. She crossed her legs and took handfuls of the popped goodness. High-pitched Draco screams of sheer infuriation alerted the disinterested party of Slytherins to come to the common room.

Theodore Nott burst into laughter upon seeing the scene unfolding before him. Millicent Bulstrode sighed a sigh of a woman too fed up with Hogwarts. She and Pansy were going to forego the whole mentorship ordeal and go straight into private sector, Millie breeding Kneazles and Pansy running a business. Pansy loathed the whole idea of witches having to get married to mean something in the magical world. Her business would change that by opening up new opportunities and doors.

Theodore Nott was going into healing. That was why his first instinct after laughing himself to madness was to check Draco's wounds.

''It'll heal.'' Theodore said and patted Draco on the back twice. He looked over to Hermione and snort-laughed into his hand. ''Granger,'' he tipped his head as a greeting and she did the same, fuming like a kettle while doing so.

Millie walked over to Pansy and sat down on the arm of the chair. She leaned down and kissed Pansy gently. Pansy melted, finding Draco’s match against Hermione second best to this blissful feeling.

''You ready to leave this hellhole?'' Pansy asked, muggle borrow-words buried deep in her vernacular. Being friends with Granger did that to a Sacred Twenty-Eight child.

The horrified look Millie gave her said enough: every single one of them was ready to leave.

Everyone, that is, except for Harry James Potter, Boy Who Lived who, alongside Hermione Granger and Albus Dumbledore was giving a speech at the graduation ceremony simply because he had killed the darkest wizard Britain had produced.

''And,'' Hermione controlled the urge to tear the podium away from him for starting a sentence with a preposition, ''uh,'' oh, kill Voldemort as a baby, why don't you, but then don't learn how to do public speaking, nice one, Harry, ''I'd just like to, uh, say that we can't forget what hardships people have gone through during the war to give us, the newer generation of wizarding Britain, the opportunity to study in peace. It's a privilege many have taken for granted. That is why,'' Hermione sensed where Ginny Weasley, bright young girl, had helped her boyfriend with his speech because it finally started to sound like a SPEECH, ''I will be becoming an Auror. Uh, yeah, and-''

Ron Weasley started clapping before Potter finished his speech, but it didn't matter, because the whole school agreed that this sounded like the perfect end and applauded with him.

''Hermione,'' Draco hissed at her to get her attention. She didn't dare look at him. ''I'm sorry, if it means anything. I'd still like to be friends.''

She discreetly side-eye glared at him.

And then minutes later threatened his properly dressed family.

''You will rue the day you crossed me!'' Hermione pointed at Abraxas Malfoy, a man she'd come to see as a grandfather figure that lent her dark tomes. Lucius and Narcissa didn't stare, so to speak, but still observed the patriarch of their family holding back soft smiles at the muggleborn their son could never beat. At least until now. Though, it had taken Malfoy influence to do so.

Abraxas crutched over to her with a simple, black diamond encrusted cane, placing a hand on her shoulder. He leaned in and whispered, ''Hermione, dear girl, you can do so much better than Gilderoy Lockhart.''

''I can't!'' Hermione shouted and that desperation and everlasting thirst for knowledge reminded Abraxas of someone quite dear to him, ''Gilderoy Lockhart is the greatest, most acclaimed, most decorated of this year's available mentors, Mr. Abraxas. Don't you understand that?''

The old Malfoy did understand that perfectly, which was why he had made sure his grandson had the 'honour' of apprenticing to that charlatan.

As someone who knew everything there was to know about everyone, Abraxas Malfoy could tell you Gilderoy Lockhart hadn't enough sense to enter his own common room, much less do the things he'd written in his books.

Draco was inheriting a dynasty and had a desire for knowledge that would help him make a path for himself.

Hermione Granger would just get disappointed and fall into despair if her academic mentor turned out to be a fraud.

Abraxas patted Hermione's shoulder and told her kindly. ''Anyone is better than him, dear. Even,'' he shuddered genuinely, ' _'Americans_.''

''Even Montgomery Goldsmith?'' Hermione pouted. She looked for guidance in the old Malfoy while Narcissa and Lucius fussed over Draco.

''I am certain he is not rubbish.'' Abraxas lied, having never heard of the American until his grandson had cursed his name. He asked Hermione if she would like to join them at Malfoy Manor, but Hermione kindly declined and said she had family to see. Her parents couldn’t attend the graduation ceremony, what with it being held at Hogwarts, but they didn’t seem to mind much.

''And now, I have to pack up and move to Southeastern Europe. There's two portkeys I have to get to on time.'' Hermione sighed, already exhausted at the mere idea of travelling via multiple portkey.

As she distanced herself from the pureblood family, Hermione raised her fist in the air – whether for comedy or not, none of them could really tell – and swore. ''You will rue the day you crossed me, Malfoy.'' Just before apparating, now once they were off Hogwarts grounds, she took her wand out, aimed it at Draco, and whispered 'finite incantatem'. His glamour fell.

The Potter-esque scar flared in the open. Lucius was grabbing Draco roughly to take a closer look. Narcissa asked him what was happening, what he'd done to deserve an attack. Abraxas' smile shifted to accommodate guffawing.

Then, with a crack, Hermione apparated to her family's home.

''She is quite amusing.'' Abraxas said fondly. He turned to his panicking grandson. ''I was rooting you two would get together, but being best friends works, as well.''

"We're not even friends anymore." It took Draco seventeen years of pureblood upbringing not to roll his eyes. ''As you can see,'' he motioned for the scar, ''Hermione doesn't want anything to do with me.''

Narcissa caressed his cheek and smiled a smile only a mother could have. ''You'll make it up to her. She is a very bright witch that won't stay mad forever.''

''She's good PR, too, '' Lucius added and cast the glamour back on his son. ''Dumbledore's muggleborn best friends with Draco Malfoy.'' The middle-aged man smirked. He had ambitions still. He even thought himself the next Minister for Magic. Any PR move to soften his Death Eater image was welcome.

''I'll try,'' Draco promised.

''She is rather fun,'' Abraxas commented. ''Reminds me of my good friend Tom from my school days.''

''Who?'' Draco asked, plans for his future weighing too heavily on his mind. The youth rarely had time to remember the past while looking forward to the future.

''Nobody,'' Lucius and Narcissa quickly said.

* * *

'' _So the monster just kept saying Nobody was hurting him? And none of his friends helped him from dying?''_

Montgomery Goldsmith nodded and smiled like a man whose main source for company was a wild snake. _''Exactly!''_

'' _That's stupid.''_ The snake slithered off of Montgomery's cluttered desk, sliding towards the open window to his cabin. ' _'You're stupid,''_ it repeated, then slinked outside.

Montgomery leaned into a wooden chair and sighed. Unrolled scrolls ranging from ancient Greek to Chinese surrounded him. Papers he'd written himself scattered over rooms, some magically glued to the fridge, others peeking out from underneath furniture he rearranged from time to time for amusement.

Newspapers were everywhere. The Wall Street Journal, Magical America, The Times, The Daily Prophet, Pobjeda, Gorska Vila, and too many satirical newspapers no self-respecting academia doctor would dare read (cough the Quibbler cough).

Through his window flew the latest copy of the Daily Prophet – he'd put a neighbour's house on the mail-list, but she was kind enough to always forward it to him. The American stood from the chair and glided over to the newspaper. He wondered what Magical Britain was up to, having not stepped inside it since 1981.

Montgomery deeply regretted opening today's copy. His scaly fingers clutched the paper and crinkled it. The scales trailed over his body up to his eyes, where they branched off and faded into his dark brown hair. He caught himself in a mirror next to his window, bent over and improper. Montgomery straightened his back, as he always did, because he did not want to look like a man in his seventies. Ha. What a laugh. He didn't look a day over forty.

He closed his crimson eyes and inhaled deeply. Slowly, as he exhaled he opened them.

**BOY WHO LIVED: FUTURE AUROR**

Aurors, to Montgomery Goldsmith, were the least critical people one could meet. They had no idea what they wanted to do with their lives, but knew violence was a part of it. Morons. _Tools_ , more like.

He looked at the interview held by a woman named Rita Skeeter and, against his better judgement, decided to read it.

_Newly graduated Harry Potter wants for a life where he can continue to help people in need. He claims that especially now, during peace, people need to do their best to uphold it._

At that passage Montgomery had to stop, walk around the room, and come back to it. ''You think Aurors make sure wars don’t happen, Potter? I cannot wait to hear what you think the Minister of Magic does.''

A moving photograph of the boy came into view. He looked positively mediocre, his hair too dishevelled for a widely consumed newspaper. Someone should've slapped him for it. If Montgomery was there, he would. Perhaps he'd kill him first and then slap his corpse, but that was less important.

He flipped the newspaper to see what else it offered today and found himself choking back angry spouts.

They gave Harry Potter _three_ pages. An obviously slow day today. It wasn't as if Dumbledore had anything stupid to talk about. Oh, wait, they gave him three pages, too. Well how about something completely uninteresting that nobody would read, but was necessary to fill out space? An interview with Percy Weasley on Cauldron Control on page thirty-one! Montgomery was on a _roll_.

He flipped back to Potter's charming interview that was more of a stress source for him at this point than anything else. Montgomery, diligently, read on. It was either that or finishing another hypothesis ignorant people would tear into only to later realise how right he was and beg him for forgiveness.

**Do you think that You-Know-Who is just in hiding and has been waiting for an opportune moment to strike? Did what happened with You-Know-Who influence your career choice?**

''I cannot believe they printed this.'' Montgomery laughed and guided himself to the couch where he reclined and eagerly read Potter's answer. ''Oh, Rita Skeeter, your unprofessionalism _delights_ _me_!'' A smile broke out on his face.

The photograph she attached to this segment of the interview had Potter squirming and looking away, perhaps towards someone to come and save him. Squirm, you pathetic boy. Squirm under the scrutinizing gaze of magical Britain.

''You signed up for a life of fame, Potter, when that mother of yours ruined my plans.''

_Voldemort is dead._

''I do wonder where the body went.'' Montgomery blinked as he spoke. ''My soul simply **ejected**.''

 _We should all move past what he's done and make the world a better place. There are plenty of dark witches and wizards Voldemort has influenced –_ ''Oh, are there now? I haven't heard of any. But good for you, Potter, knowing more than everyone around you.'' – _It is our duty as upstanding citizens to fight against tyranny and vow to never allow monsters into positions of power._

''Only 'monsters' have been in positions of power since power has existed, Potter. Though,'' Montgomery Goldsmith rolled his crimson eyes, ''what could a future auror possibly know of politics?''

Goldsmith didn't expect to spend the entire afternoon reminiscing of his time as Lord Voldemort, but there he was. Day turned to night and a hissing sound broke him out of a monologue about Dumbledore.

The snake, now with even more criticism:

'' _Are you still in this house?"_ It asked. _"It has been hours. Go outside. Have a walk. Kill some mice. Eat.''_

Montgomery glared at the fed-up, venomous snake and hissed at it to go away. _''Go jump away from me, poskoku.''_

The poskok – most venomous snake in Southeastern Europe – hissed.

'' _Zorka is asking for you.''_

'' _You can tell Zorka if she comes anywhere near me I will let her husband out of the mental institution she put him into.''_

'' _She is not a speaker.''_

'' _Bite her. She will understand the sentiment.''_

'' _I would rather bite you than her.''_ The venomous snake slid over to him and curled next to him on the couch.

Montgomery placed a wounded hand over his heart and gaped at the horned snake. _''I didn't expect betrayal from you.''_

Living with snakes for the past seventeen years had changed him a lot. Mentally speaking, he wasn't quite as right as he used to be. Not that he was any better whilst war had gone on, though he had pretended to be. Montgomery Goldsmith was tired of pretending to have his life together.

'' _She said some girl is looking for you. Didn't you mention a pupil coming around today? You've been talking about it for days.''_ The poskok moved to sit in Montgomery's lap.

''Ah. Yes. I do believe I joined a mentorship programme.'' Casting a cursory glance at a calendar planted on his front door, Montgomery saw that today, indeed, was marked as the day his pupil would come. Pushing the snake off of him, he surged for the door, putting on a silent, wandless glamour so the muggles didn't kill him upon sight. ''I forgot that was **today**.''

'' _Did you finish that paper, at least?''_

Wisely, Montgomery said nothing.

'' _Stupid.''_ The snake's tongue slipped out as it hissed.


	2. Portkey Pandemonium

Hermione packed in thirty minutes. She took her clothes and shoved them into her handbag. If she were to live with someone she hadn't met in a place she hadn't seen, Hermione was going to make sure she had absolutely everything. That was why she tossed in her whole library along with her clothes. One could never be prepared enough! What if the hermit didn't have Agatha Christie? _Hogwarts: A History_ came into view and Hermione didn't dare part with it. Into the illegally extended handbag it went!

Undetectable extension charms were completely and utterly illegal if done for private use, but how else was Hermione going to pack? Multiple suitcase travel was _stressful_.

When she finished packing she took out her vacation suitcase and put in some mundane things she wouldn't miss if it were lost during portkey travel. Everything important lay in her handbag.

''Bye mum, bye dad!'' Hermione waved at them. They were poring over dental accounts and talking about them in heated tones. Procedures and technical terminology was thrown around casually. Hermione stood at the doorframe for a bit before Hermione's mother noticed she was packed.

''Bye, sweetheart.'' She called out with a smile. It was echoed by her father, but when Hermione nodded they returned their attention to work. She tried not to let this briefness hurt her because it was, well, this sounded a bit sad… but it was implied that her parents loved her. They were just too busy at the moment. Besides, she’d promised to write them. That was enough contact for them. Ever since finding out that she was a witch and wouldn’t be a dentist like them, things had changed. Neither for the worse or the better, in Hermione’s opinion, but things had changed.

Hermione apparated to her first portkey destination. She grabbed hold of the wine bottle portkey and officially landed in a French cafe. Her senses were attacked and nausea slowly reared its ugly head.

''I hate portkey travel.'' The brightest witch of her age tottered backward and sat on a couch. As she plopped down, a wizard came to serve her. He asked if her travel was good.

''Oh, yes.'' Hermione sheepishly said to the good looking man. He then asked if she would like something to drink. ''Water would be great, thank you.’’

Hermione sipped her water and relaxed. She closed her eyes and concentrated on having some peace before arriving to her final destination. More witches and wizards came through this café and Hermione found it fun to observe them go about their way. Some knew where each portkey led; fondly speaking of the countries they'd visited. Others searched for their portkey until giving up and asking the waiter, whose name tag read "Francois", to help them.

Thirty minutes passed. Hermione, with a clear head and empty glass, decided to get on with her journey. She looked back to where she had come from and saw many, empty bottles lined, each on a respective marble pillar.

''Excuse me!'' Hermione called and Francois came to her side instantly. ''Uh, do you know where I can find a portkey to Kotor, Montenegro? My mentor lives there.''

''Kotor?'' The wizard thought for a few seconds and then snapped his fingers, transporting them to the far left of the room. He pointed out a see-through glass bottle with red tape wrapped around it. "Rakija'' was written on it in black sharpie.

''You are very lucky, mademoiselle, this one takes you directly to the centre of Kotor, Monténégro. The previous portkey led to Titograd, or, is it called Podgorica now?’’ The man mused, shook his head, and continued, ‘’Recently the mistress has changed it on behest of a friend of a benefactor.''

''You've been very helpful, thank you.'' Francois nodded appreciatively at Hermione. Another witch came in, talking loudly about the Czech Republic. Before Francois could leave, Hermione spoke again: ''Not to interrupt, but I can’t help but notice that all of the portkeys are alcohol bottles?''

''The portkey mistress is a _very_ turbulent alcoholic," Francois explained. Hermione reckoned he'd had to explain this many, many times before her. "She is as brilliant in running her business as she is in drinking anyone under the table.''

''Who is the portkey mistress, might I ask?''

Hermione saw the man heave a sigh. ''Lakeisha Durant. She married into a magical French family. I would even introduce you to her, but she is still asleep. Perhaps if you come by another time you will be able to meet. She does so love the British. They fascinate her.''

Hermione checked the clock; it was just after noon. She thanked the wizard for all his hard work and grabbed the Rakija bottle.

In a matter of seconds the portkey spat Hermione out in the back of a buregdžinica. Which was Montenegrin – aka unintelligible talk to English speakers – for a place where people could buy various meat related things. Mostly bureks. Beautifully delicious bureks the author craved while writing this.

''Oh, hello.'' An elderly woman with creases framing her face greeted Hermione. ''Wait for my daughter.'' She spoke mechanically, like she'd learned the sound of the sentences, but didn't know what they meant fully. ''She knows many languages.''

''Excuse me, ma'am, but I'm looking for my mentor. His name is Montgomery Goldsmith.''

The woman smiled benignly and continued making more bureks. ''Jes, jes. Wait for my daughter, pliis. She spiiks inglish.''

Hermione found a chair to slump in and rummaged through her satchel bag for a book. At least she wouldn't waste precious reading time.

The shop was incredibly busy as Hermione flipped through pages upon pages, her reading comprehension staggering as the wait became unbearable. Schoolchildren and lawyers and mages all flocked to the shop for food. Children asked for something that would keep them concentrated, lawyers asked for luck, and mages asked for the usual.

The sun began to set and Hermione didn't leave the shop, clawing at the last few pages of her double-tome book. It was a fiction novel about two lovers caught in a terribly chaotic situation. Usually she didn’t read such novels, but Hermione simply found having nothing better to read and Narcissa had called this book very informative when she’d lent it to Hermione. A how to NOT guide for life, Narcissa had claimed it to be.

The entire time the elderly woman hadn't spoken to Hermione. She offered her a burek, which Hermione accepted, knowing full well that one could not say no to food offered to you by a grandmother archetype. Hermione munched on the meat and savoured the delicious taste until a woman with dark hair tied up in a bun greeted the old lady with a kiss on the cheek and a hearty exclamation: ''Mama!''

''Zorka.'' The old woman smiled and began to talk about things Hermione hadn't the faintest about. She stood and waved at Zorka.

At one point the mother pointed at Hermione and Zorka's eyes sparked to life. She calmly shushed her mother and greeted Hermione. ''Ćao, ljepojko!'' Hermione saw Zorka smile and figured that was a good thing to be called. (Which it was, mind you, because the Balkan population had enough dignity to insult you only when you understood them.)

''Hello.'' Hermione pushed the two-tome into her handbag. ''Is it you I've been waiting for?''

Zorka nodded and beckoned for Hermione to follow. ''Oh yes, sweet thing. I apologise for not coming earlier, but I was swarmed with work. Morning rush and all. People are scrambling to buy flour to make bread and I need to be there to make sure they don't steal it, even though I tell them time and time again there'll always be more.''

''How?'' Hermione wondered, interested in what Zorka was saying. ''I mean, won't you run out of supplies at some point?''

''Not if I duplicate it every night. Eternal food.'' Zorka snapped her fingers in success and winked at a flabbergasted Hermione.

''Is that healthy?''

''As healthy as the original I use as a matrix, though if the matrix has gone bad then the duplicate will go bad. It's a brand new spell I haven't released to the public. If you duplicate say, a bag of flour – as in, making it a clone – you're just making an appearance of the bag of flour genuine, not the properties it holds. That's what they teach you in schools. Monty helped me design the spell.'' At Hermione's quiet stretch, Zorka elaborated, ''Montgomery Goldsmith. You're looking for him, yes?''

Upon hearing that her mentor helped make something that fascinating, Hermione couldn't help but create a small squeal of delight. Perhaps this wouldn't be a waste! "Yes!" Hermione shook her fist and blushed when Zorka laughed at her.

''Oh, you're adorable. What's with the bag?'' Zorka asked, pointing out Hermione's bag of tricks. ''Also if you need some help I could carry that coffer. Seems like you put very little in it. I admire light packers. Strong characters!''

Hermione shook her head. ''Thank you, but I can manage on my own.'' Awkwardly, as if found out, she explained, ''The bag is full of everything I wanted to bring with me. The suitcase is just a formality so people don't give me odd looks.''

Zorka smacked Hermione on the back and said. ''That's genius! Now I just _have to_ take you to my store so you can take a look at the product yourself!''

Hermione couldn't wait. Oh, _finally_. Her dream of figuring things out and studying magic outside of school was coming to fruition! Things were going well for her!

Kotor Bay was filled with small boats dancing on the soft water, lulled by tenacious wind that burrowed past black hills. The sky above was a dark shade of grey, clouds fighting among each other before rain fell. Zorka led Hermione to go upward, away from the sea. They passed by the bus station and travelled further, passing by clearings and a closed soap factory with graffiti painted all over it.

Without walking for more than ten minutes, the two witches found themselves in Zorka's humble shop. They would have gotten there sooner, but, alas, Zorka was quite popular and had to stop when greeted by a neighbour and speak to them for a minute before moving on to the other person that stopped her. Hermione watched as Zorka smiled politely and never broke stride, whether speaking to an elderly man or a small pack of teenagers. Dear Merlin, Zorka even stopped to speak to a _snake_. Not as a parselmouth, but as a genuine attempt to talk to a horned snake. This was why Hermione never liked small towns: even the horned snakes needed to be greeted as age-old friends.

Zorka shoved Hermione in the back of her shop. She pointed at her matrix supplies and the duplicates she'd gotten and prepped for tomorrow. ''I dare you to find me a difference between the two.''

Hermione took that challenge, and promptly failed it.

The prospect of being wrong and learning new things excited her.

* * *

Zorka Mrvaljević was a fiend not to be trifled with. She spoke broken English and didn't like being corrected. Montgomery realised early on that her insistence he not correct her stemmed from her joy in seeing him twitch when she got something wrong rather than it being about pride.

''You have girl here.'' She toothily smirked at Montgomery when he apparated to her grocery shop. ''Hermione is her name. Girl has small bag full of things and big, light coffer. She had been sad before being here. You failed to pick up her.''

Montgomery thought her stupid, but that was another thing Zorka liked him to think. It had taken him a whole week to realise he'd only read the thoughts she'd purposefully picked out for him to read.

''To be fair, my only interlocutors for the past years have been snakes. I had no reason to read their simple minds.'' To this day, Montgomery loathed how defensive he'd sounded when speaking with her, a total stranger back then. Especially when Zorka had grinned from ear to ear, teeth yellowed from smoking. She had flipped her dark hair out of her face and said.

''True, _Lord_. Snakes, also, cannot read mind. No reason to protect it.''

Zorka vowed that if she ever needed to hire a painter, she would commission a painting of Montgomery's reaction at her successfully reading his rusty, unguarded mind. Montgomery knew, then, that global domination had to wait until he got better. He was ashamed to admit, years after that conversation that he wasn't getting better. It was an unintended – infuriating – side-effect of his soul being split so many times. At any rate, he still held on to his self-awareness. It was the only thing left for him to hold on to.

''Thank you for sending word, Zorka.'' His American accent needed work, but it was decent enough to pass, or at the very least confuse British people. Perfectionism had left him long ago. ''Can you point me in her direction?''

Zorka gladly did. Wandlessly she opened the back door with a calm hand gesture.

His pupil – oh, and wasn't _that_ a beautiful thing to say? – came into view. She had the most demanding type of hair. Even the ever screeching Lady Black would have glowered in envy. He flinched at the memory. Montgomery had long refrained from remembering that ghastly banshee. He didn't like remembering his past at all, lest he decide to correct some of his mistakes. Well, _one_ in particular.

''Howdy!'' Montgomery did his best not to sound too weird, but he hadn't spoken to someone English, born and bred, since 1981. He waved Hermione over to him. ''Name's Montgomery Goldsmith.'' Snapped his lapels – he'd transfigured some just because of this – and added, ''At your service.''

The pupil smiled at him as he crossed the grocery store tiles in decisive steps, her bushy hair devouring her. Her firm handshake didn't take Montgomery off-guard, but the sudden onslaught of relief flooding from her mind did.

_Oh, finally, he's here._

_Hermione, this is your life now._

_It'll be fine._

_He doesn't seem stupid. Just American._

Overthinker, this one, Montgomery thought to himself, but betrayed nothing on his face.

''My name is Hermione Granger,'' Hermione told him, ''it's a pleasure to meet you.''

_Fuck you, Malfoy, I'm not going to let your actions ruin my life._

Well, Montgomery offered Hermione his arm to apparate them both, he hadn't heard _that_ surname in quite a while. Abraxas flashed in his mind and he almost splinched them.

* * *

Draco Malfoy was not at all disappointed in himself for throwing his best friend, Hermione Granger, under the proverbial bus. Why? Because he was living the most wondrous life of splendour with Gilderoy Lockhart, of course! Upon meeting Draco, Lockhart had organised an impromptu photo session to get the word out he was mentoring a Malfoy. This suited Draco well. He didn't mind being used, just as long as he got good publicity out of it.

''So, dear mentor,'' Draco asked from the chaise longue in their Italian hotel room, ''we've dined, we've relaxed. When do you plan on embarking on another one of your adventures,'' the new graduate couldn't help but quirk his brows in anticipation, ''with _me_ in tow?''

Gilderoy Lockhart laughed. He clapped his hands and their joint closet opened only for a large stack of twinkling photos of the famous wizard to slide out and envelop Draco.

''First I need you to sign these, my good apprentice! Then we'll be going to Spain in search of wonder! Italy turned out to have nobody interesting to talk to. But we will march on!''

Gilderoy Lockhart struck a pre-rehearsed pose in which he looked heroic. He practised in the bathroom, you see, like any other self-respecting charlatan.

Draco Malfoy clapped.

''Louder, Draco, more élan!''

Draco clapped louder.

* * *

This day, May 29th, three years ago in the grand year of 1995,

Abraxas Malfoy suffered an acute attack on his person. It devastated him emotionally, sent his son into hateful disarray, had Draco confused out of his mind, and left Narcissa the matriarch of the Malfoy Family.

Thoros Nott, Abraxas' childhood friend, had come up to him and asked what was happening, where Antoinette Malfoy was. Abraxas Malfoy had had a grim, loathsome expression on his ill face when he answered: ''Antoinette Malfoy is _dead_. Please, do not bring her up ever again.''

He hadn't. Lucius distanced himself, became involved in politics needlessly so he could use it as an excuse not to come home often. Narcissa was recognized by the wards finally as the Mistress of the House. Draco, having been warned not to mention his grandmother, didn't. He came by often to take Abraxas' mind off of his illness with arithmancy homework he had.

A lung splitting cough tore from his mouth when he shifted in his bed. Quickly he looked for something to throw up in. He hated it when his coughs started because when it was only the pain it was manageable. The coughing brought sickness with it. Abraxas grabbed a bucket near his head and leaned into it, shuddering.

Malfoy Manor was too quiet, safe for his bloody coughing fits.

Draco had gone to be Lockhart's apprentice. Narcissa and Lucius were out celebrating at the Parkinsons'. Primrose Parkinson would make a spectacle of herself and embarrass that family even further, but Abraxas couldn't muster to get out of his bed and see it for himself. The two Notts were probably there, as well. Oh, _everyone_ was at the Parkinsons' except for him. Not, of course, that he hadn't been invited. Abraxas just didn't want to go. Seeing Primrose Parkinson drunk and signing in 1945 was the same as seeing her now. Less youth, the same bon vivre. Less Tom trying to pry the half-empty bottle out of her hands and telling her she should control herself. Less him vowing to tell her betrothed if she didn't stop draping herself over him. Less Primrose telling him that they've graduated and that he should drink like the rest of them. Less Tom looking at him for help. Less Tom sneaking off with him. _Less_.

Abraxas hoped Draco would find the same kind of love Lucius had found in Narcissa. Someone strong, whom he loved with all his heart. Malfoys loved with their whole being, Abraxas had noticed.

He spent the entire day wallowing and sleeping. When he didn't sleep, he was in pain, both emotional and physical, and when he slept, he was plagued by his gaffes. Though, this time fate smiled upon him and threw him a good memory to dream of.

* * *

Tom Marvolo Riddle and Abraxas Malfoy lazed like snakes out in the rare Scotland sun. They were both decked out in their school robes; Abraxas because that was the most black piece of clothing he owned and Tom because it was the only nice piece of clothing he owned.

‘’Did I offer my condolences in the end?’’ Tom asked. Abraxas’ father had died prior to their fifth year. In the wake of summer. ‘’Your father, he died of a heart attack, right?’’

Abraxas turned rigid at the switch in topic. Talking about nothing was preferable to this. ‘’You did not offer me your condolences. I didn’t expect you to, either. We were not friends then.’’ Abraxas disliked Tom and him being friends; rather, he wanted them to be more. Whether Tom noticed Abraxas avoiding the topic of his father’s cause of death remained a mystery, because he never brought it up ever again.

‘’Well, I’m sorry for your loss in any case.’’ Tom said, months later. He pushed himself into a sitting position and shrugged. ‘’Must have been a good father to you if his death got you to wear mourning black.’’ Abraxas had a reputation of never wearing dull colours if he could help it.

Abraxas tried turning away from Tom’s scrutinizing gaze. Those brown eyes were so strong; though, they were far more intense when Abraxas remembered the incident with the little Ravenclaw girl. Annoying bint, but still – an innocent when all things were considered.

Sensing Abraxas’ discomfort, Tom got up and went to a nearby bush. He crouched down and began hissing. A snake slithered out and hissed something at Tom. Indulgently, he petted it. Abraxas watched as that intensiveness drifted off into something softer. It was strange to see on the usually cold prefect.

Their OWLs were finished and, with that, a chapter of their lives was over. Abraxas was both relieved and stressed because of this fact. Tom Riddle only began talking to him because Abraxas had been doomed to fail most of his OWLs. Slughorn had been merciful and convinced Tom Riddle to help him study, given how Abraxas was grieving and couldn’t concentrate. Right, Abraxas scoffed, as if that was his only problem in life.

Now the logical conclusion was that Tom Riddle would stop interacting with him and move on with his life. Abraxas decided he'd not let that happen. "Tom."

The snake coiled playfully around the parselmouth's leg and he hissed a laugh at it, calling it a stupid string in English. He often did that, simply switching between languages whilst unaware of doing so. It usually happened when his guard was down. Abraxas took it as a compliment.

Tom Riddle looked at Abraxas and asked. ''What is it, Malfoy?''

It wouldn't be until their graduation that Tom Riddle would actually call him by his given name, but Abraxas was nothing if not patient.

''I'm fond of you.'' Abraxas spoke in the most overt way anyone in the 1940s could have hinted at amorous intention. Somewhere along the line the arriviste's dry quips didn't have the pureblood's skin prickle distastefully. The prospect of breathing the same air as a (at the time believed) mudblood did not put him off his lunch, but, instead, had him actively search Tom Riddle out.

''That's nice.'' Tom Riddle deadpanned, didn't make eye contact.

They remained sitting like that in what Abraxas thought to be the most awkward of silences ever created in human history. The snake slithered away and Tom Riddle stood to go into the Forest for a bit. Abraxas slithered dejectedly back to his dormitory where he promptly lied down in his bed and placed a pillow over his face to muffle the most anguished and mortified of screams ever to grace the planet.

Thoros Nott did not wish to get involved. Putting down the book he was reading, he slowly inched out of the dormitory and promptly fell into a sprint.

''Stupid!'' Abraxas hissed into the pillow and groaned in anguish, trying to suffocate himself. ''Idiot! _Mon Merlin!''_

The next morning they had Defence. It was the only class Tom Riddle sat alone.

(He said people distracted him and he needed a class just to focus on the material in front of him. During other classes he sat with non-Slytherins, as no Slytherin wanted to sit next to the non-pureblood. Mostly the Hufflepuffs sat next to him because as Tom had once divulged to a curious Abraxas: ''Gryffindors don't actually care for the material enough to be quiet and Ravenclaws don't see the point to learning what they don't want to learn when they want to learn it so they're gossips.''

''You sit with a Ravenclaw in Care for Magical Creatures.'' Abraxas had pointed out.

Tom Riddle shrugged. '’Nobby Leach gives me interesting information.''

‘’Is he your friend?’’ Abraxas couldn’t remember seeing Tom Riddle without Nobby Leach, if the opportunity for them to be together occurred.

Tom shrugged. ‘’I suppose.’’ If one didn’t have friends, there was something very, very wrong with that person. And Tom didn't want anyone aside from Dumbledore to think there was something wrong with him. ‘’But he’s rather annoying. Nobby Leach’s got ideas. Lots of ‘em.’’

‘’Do you like them?’’

‘’Wot?’’ Tom Riddle had the weirdest bloody accent in the history of accents. Abraxas thought he was going to learn a second language by communicating with Tom on a daily basis. To return the favour, he really ought to teach him French.

Abraxas clarified: ‘’Nobby Leach’s ideas… do you like them?’’

‘’They’re all right.’’ Another shrug. Tom Riddle stayed away from politics. Nobby Leach seemed to want to _be_ the politics.)

Given the information at hand, Abraxas didn't expect a single reaction out of Tom Riddle when they saw each other at Defence class, after Abraxas’ brave confession. Thoros slipped into his seat and just as Abraxas was about to do the same he heard Tom speak: ''Malfoy.''

Abraxas turned. He saw Tom Riddle sitting alone at his desk and thought there wasn't anything out of the ordinary. What _was_ out of the ordinary was Tom Riddle pointing to the free seat next to his and waiting expectantly.

If Thoros Nott's recounting of the events was anything to go by, Abraxas had practically apparated to the spot.

It wasn't an 'I'm fond of you, too', but Abraxas Malfoy thought it was a step in the right direction.

* * *

When Narcissa and Lucius came back, giggly like proud parents were allowed to be, Abraxas decided to go for a walk. He grabbed his cane, donned a peacock inspired coat, and wished his children good night.

He apparated outside of Little Hangleton and crutched over towards the once-grand house slowly. Cars drove by it, children played around it. Never quite _near_ it. If anyone tried to enter, the wards would just fling them to the other side of the estate.

It stared down Abraxas like a beautiful monument of his love for Tom. Boarded windows, decaying wooden doors, chipped paint that hadn't been renovated since the 1940s all glared at the pristine aristocrat. He eased into the estate, past wards he'd created days after Voldemort invaded the Potter home. It seemed improper for people to go in such a dangerous place without warning, but a sign was too crass. Abraxas was a lot of things, but crass would never be one of them.

Abraxas creaked open the main door and called out, his voice a tad wound up: ''Ma petite! I hope you're not eager to eat, because I haven't brought you food. We have not seen each other in quite a long time. I brought you something more mentally stimulating – my company!''

Each step he took made the floorboards under him creak with his weight. Abraxas carefully chose where he would step, unless he wished to step on the one he'd come to see.

Once he'd stepped on her tail back in 1978 and nearly died.

He hadn't Tom with him to placate her anymore and stop her from eating him.

Hissing came from above him and Abraxas had to control his fear to look. Fingers clung onto the cane, but his free hand fished for his wand buried in his robe pocket. A body bind, he decided. Nothing enough to maim or hurt.

Above the foyer there was a giant hole and she peeked from it, her forked tongue shivering just as the proud Malfoy wanted to.

''Ma petite! I came to see you.'' Abraxas smiled warmly.

She was drenched in magic that kept her alive without sustenance. As long as anyone didn't kill her, she would live. The _fiend_ didn't even need to eat, but she enjoyed the practise of eating, so Abraxas usually brought rodents with him. Sometimes a too curious muggle that wouldn't take no for an answer and stalked Abraxas through the wards.

Ma petite was longer than Abraxas.

Ma petite looked like she could go for an Abraxas shaped snack.

Ma petite hissed loudly and jumped at him through the hole, her mouth wide open.

''NAGINI, NO!''

Abraxas disapprated just in time, wand tightly held by his shaking hand. It was unused. He couldn't bring himself to harm her even if she wanted to end him. Poor dear, Abraxas panted and leaned on his cane, to have a companion like Tom and now to be stuck with him.


	3. Snake Man

Kotor had a lot to offer, but Montgomery Goldsmith (like a tourist) didn't know how to take advantage of such beauty. He'd fled from hospitable people (prying eyes and slippery tongues, he claimed,) and locked himself in a cabin up above the twisting Old Town. It took two hours by foot to get to him. Unless, of course, one was magic… but few people were.

Montgomery apparated with Hermione to the outskirts of the vast, black forest looming above the medieval city. They moved towards his messy home. If he'd been prepared, he'd have cleaned up.

Hissing sounded the moment _they_ felt his presence.

_Food. Did you bring food?_

_How dare you forget to feed us? We have voted to eat you next time._

Montgomery Goldsmith glanced at the democratic snake and canted his head in confusion at it. Snakes were too smart for his comfort here.

_You look very nice in that skin._

He vowed to give that snake more food than the others.

_Who is the girl? Where are your scales? Why are you walking faster? Wait. Wait, **leg thing.**_

Montgomery Goldsmith refused to listen to the congregation of snakes in front of his home. He channelled his magic into his hand and with a flippant gesture flung most of the snakes away from him and his _pupil_. Oh, that would take time to get used to. He was happy for the first time in a long while, giddy for life, merry for tomorrow, brilliantly enthusiastic for whatever his pupil would bring.

Meanwhile, Hermione Granger did not like the fact her mentor turned out to be some weirdo living in a forest with a hundred thousand snakes following him around.

She raised her brows and asked in a clipped tone only a Brit trying to be polite could have, ''Mr. Goldsmith, how come there are so many snakes around your home?''

''They're like cats, Miss Granger,'' he supplied immediately. ''You feed one, come the next morning there is a whole family begging for food and warmth.''

Hermione nodded, familiar with the phenomenon. Hogwarts had an abundance of felines. Crookshanks the most noticeable of them all. She was sad not to bring her familiar along, but now she wasn't regretting that decision. Half of these snakes were venomous and looked ready to pounce on _her_ , let alone a defenceless cat.

The brightest witch of her age prayed that the inside of her new home would be better than the exterior. But, no, that prayer was misplaced in a file and sent off who knows where. The inside was somehow _worse_ than the rustic cabin threatening to topple down if hit by a strong wind.

Mismatched furniture lined her vision. Turned over rococo chairs hid underneath them scribbled newspapers and, as Hermione moved towards them, she saw many angrily crossed out Latin words. Dust piled under the glass dining room table, and on it, a bowl of decorative fruit was bitten in some places.

Montgomery Goldsmith bid her a good stay and moved up the creaky stairs, no doubt chasing out nosy snakes.

She crouched down to pick up the papers and read through them, but a sudden, loud hiss startled her up to her full height. Hermione wasn't a fan of snakes – Malfoys included as of now. She turned and pointed her vine wood wand at a horned snake. It hissed at her and Hermione remembered Zorka talking to a similar snake.

''I mean you no harm.'' Hermione said to the snake, but held her aim.

It hissed again, this time switching its pitch. Honestly, it looked like it was mocking her in a snakeish way. Just when she thought that she'd broken ties with snakes, more snakes popped into her life.

''Mr. Goldsmith!'' Hermione called out. She didn't know if any of these were his friends and to maim her mentor's familiar on the first day was not the impression Hermione hoped to make. It would be démodé, as Mr. Abraxas used to say whenever something he didn't like would get anywhere near his vicinity.

Goldsmith apparated right next to her and hissed at the snake to leave. It slithered through the front door like an unwanted guest.

''You're a parselmouth?'' Hermione inquired and let her wand dangle limply in her hand, eyes wide and mouth softly parted. She'd not met a parselmouth since Harry and even that had been rare. Her mentor was more surprising by the minute.

''Yes,'' her mentor admitted, features unreadable, ''is that going to be a problem?''

Hermione Granger shook her head and said, ''I'm not a prejudiced person. Knowing parseltongue is just another skill to explore.''

''Yes,'' her mentor said slowly, scrutinizing her with copper-crimson eyes. ''However, Miss Granger, that skill is just as stigmatized as your status."

''My _status_?'' She dared him to continue, narrowing her eyes and crossing her arms. Hermione feared no zealot.

Dumbledore had promised no pureblood devotee would get near her. Guess this one had slithered into the mentor list like a hidden thorn.

As if reading her mind, Montgomery exhaled deeply and pointed his clasped hands at her. ''Miss Granger, I have no time for this. You wish to learn. Fantastic. I wish to teach someone who wants to learn. Also, fantastic. You are my long time coming student.''

''If you're so eager to teach, why start now?'' Hermione asked him pointedly and watched as bitterness and resentment danced in her mentor's eyes a moment before fleeing. He was good at guiding his emotions into neutrality.

''Because of personal reasons I wish not to disclose.'' He said, mysteriously, like a mysterious enigma Hermione was going to demystify. He changed the topic quickly. ''Your snake free room is upstairs and prepped for you.''

''Thank you.'' Hermione bowed her head to him and began lugging her suitcase up the stairs.

''You know, you can levitate it.'' She heard him say disdainfully.

''I know that!'' Hermione said, and to spite him, didn't levitate her near empty suitcase.

When she reached the top floor, her first impression of the corridor was that it wasn't as messy as downstairs. Sure, there were cobwebs, but spiders had to live somewhere. The room on the left was ajar and Hermione reckoned that it was hers for the taking.

Inside the room she found a simple bed and just enough space for sleep. She stuffed her suitcase between her bed and the wall.

No.

This wouldn't do.

In fact, this was horrible. She had to check if her mentor would allow her to extend her room like she had her bag. But what if he wouldn't let her? Hermione thought, fearful. What if he was one of those _law abiding_ citizens?

A shudder ran a marathon through Hermione.

''This whole situation is terrible,'' the witch whispered to herself. She needed someone to vent to. She would have – once upon a time – written a quick note to Malfoy, but not anymore. Malfoy would flaunt Lockhart in her face and Hermione knew she could not handle such a thing. Not during this emotionally compromising situation he'd put her in.

Exiting her cramped room, Hermione decided to take a look around. A slightly open door across from hers beckoned for exploration. Hermione looked left and right, saw no one, and gently creaked open the door.

It was a standard looking bedroom of an American living abroad. Or at least how a European pictured it, anyway. A queen sized bed was in the centre – Hermione noticed how larger the room was compared to hers and knew she had better change that. One wall completely made out of bookcases was stacked with potions and yellowed tomes. They seeped with magic and Hermione merely whispered to herself 'yes'. Though, strangely enough, another wall was just lined with muggle paintings of old bearded men. Then her mentor's room got even more extra. The American flag draped across a wall in all its thunderous glory was not something Hermione expected out of her mentor, but was not at all surprised.

 _Americans_.

Hermione closed the door and went downstairs to interact with said American.

The sight was the strangest she'd witness that night.

Her mentor sat cross-legged in a leather armchair and hissed at the snake Hermione was convinced had left. His scaly hands flaunted as he explained to it things. It hissed at him angrily with its mouth open for attack, but her mentor stared at it, willing it to bow down.

Montgomery Goldsmith was a giant _snake man_ and Hermione Granger had to learn from him. Oh this was just bloody wonderful, thought Hermione, no wonder he had had no pupils before me.

''Sir.'' She coughed to get his attention and when it averted from the snake Hermione regretted it. Twin crimson eyes bore into her soul and she tensed involuntarily. Inhuman eyes that belonged to a monster rather than a wizard.

''Mi _ss_ Granger,'' the hiss left over from speaking parseltongue seeped into his accent, ''I hope you have settled in nicely.''

He blinked and Hermione was surprised his eyes had the ability.

Common sense finally throttled words into Hermione's brain. ''Oh, yes, sir, I have.''

''You can ask, you know,'' he told her. When she silently stared at him, he added, ''This was a failed experiment.'' Rolling up his dress shirt sleeves, Montgomery showed Hermione that the scales travelled further than his hands. ''I lacked some ingredients and thought to substitute them with snake parts. They were on hand, you see.''

There was a world of questions on Hermione's mind.

''What were you attempting to make?'' Hermione strode over to him, taking a seat in an armchair next to him. Too caught up in magical intricacies, she didn't shy away from the snake on the floor. ''Do they feel like real scales?"

Montgomery Goldsmith grinned at her a pearly smile. He rolled down his sleeves and answered her questions methodically, keeping his voice light. ''They feel like real snake scales, yes. I was trying to cure myself of an illness that had attacked my previous body. ''

When another wave of questions came, he simply said to her, ''Miss Granger, I admire your curiosity, but it is late. Don't you need sleep?''

''I slept yesterday.'' Hermione said to him with the confidence of someone who would rather put her health in danger for knowledge. ''It's not necessary to sleep every day.''

Montgomery hadn't the heart to contradict a soul that looked so much like him. Not that he had enough soul to compare. He was operating on less than four percent. That he was aware of. In actuality it was less, but he won’t find out about that in a while.

The disgraced Dark Lord stippled his fingers and told Hermione if she wanted to spend the entire night interrogating him she might as well make them some coffee. He waited for her to say something, but all she did was stand up and go into the kitchen. Then she spent three full minutes asking him where things were. And, in the end, she had to accio everything because his organisation didn't make a lick of sense to her. It made perfect sense to him, though. He didn't know what the youth was on about.

''Why do you keep so many things in the _freezer_?''

''So the snakes don't go near them. I thought it was obvious.''

Montgomery saw realisation flash in those brown eyes. Living with snakes was a tiresome process – Nagini had set the bar too high. These snakes he'd fed once and couldn't get rid of. It was an infestation. Was he going to admit that to anyone? No, no he wasn't.

_Ugh, Hermione, just make him some coffee and maybe he'll actually teach you something useful. He can't be all that bad. Zorka said he helped her with a complex spell. Just breathe and concentrate on surviving the next year._

Ex-I-am-Lord-Voldemort did not appreciate his pupil's lack of trust in him as a teacher. He had prepped a lesson plan since 1945. Learning would definitely be done under this roof. Practical learning _and_ theory. Theory first, though, because he'd made a horcrux before reading EVERYTHING about making one and suffered greatly.

Montgomery Goldsmith learned from his mistakes.

_If he's at least a quarter of Gilderoy Lockhart, I'll be happy._

Montgomery choked on his own spit. The venomous snake laughed at him. He coughed and struggled to breathe. He rasped out a hiss. '' _Is she serious? She is comparing ME to that…that….that.''_ For the first time in his career as a political manipulator overflowing with charisma, the ex-Dark Lord found himself at a loss of words. _''This cannot be my life.''_

'' _What? I do not read minds.''_ The poskok asked, incredibly interested when the chance to become privy to one's misfortune arose.

'' _Gilderoy Lockhart is an idiot! He's… He's worse than an idiot, he's beyond madness! The nerve to dare compare the great Lord Voldemort to a worm like him?!''_

The Dark Lord shook. Magic sizzled around him like an electrified cat's fur did, and he accepted Hermione's cup of coffee with a forced smile that didn't show his disappointment.

The snake coiled on his lap and hissed chuckles. _''Smart girl. Knows you're waste of time.''_

Voldemort hated admitting this, but the snake was right. He wouldn't be overshadowed by some simpleton that had – to be fair – made a respectable living out of conning people and stealing their life's work for his own.

Now what Voldemort needed to do was find the perfect way of relating to Hermione Granger's necessity for knowledge. Something the youth would find enticing. What was his main obsession when he was her age? Global domination! No, wait – it wasn't nearly as magical.

They sipped their coffee and, to buy himself more time to think, Voldemort kindly asked Hermione to go fetch some sugar. It was in a visible spot and she didn't need to accio it. Hermione stood and went to get it. Such an obedient pupil. He should have gotten into this teaching business a long time ago just for the free labour.

A beautiful idea blossomed in his mind and he didn't wait to mull it over more before asking, ''Miss Granger, do you know what a _horcrux_ is?''

Crashing and cluttering of china resounded from the kitchen. Hermione cursed and Voldemort knew he had her.

''I know you can be immortal if you make one.'' Hermione said carefully, considering each word she said about the taboo topic. She was surprised by how blasé he was about the topic. _Americans_ , her thoughts explained.

Voldemort patted her seat and she sat in it, giving him the sugar bag as she did so.

''I specialize in excavating any branch of magic I can. This includes spells that are considered by your government as dark.''

''I think a horcrux is illegal everywhere.'' Hermione said. She'd read about it in Draco's library over one summer. Mr. Abraxas had been very opinionated on the matter. He went into the gritty details, explaining to both Draco and her that the drawbacks far outweighed the benefits. He compared horcrux making to being addicted to cocaine. It was illuminating.

''Of course it's illegal **in practise** ,'' Montgomery Goldsmith, brilliant mentor, said, ''but knowledge doesn't hurt anyone, does it?''

_Yes, it does. Knowledge in the wrong hands can hurt a lot of people._

The funny thing was.

When Montgomery Goldsmith thought he'd miscalculated and overestimated his pupil, Hermione Granger said to him. ''No, of course not, sir. Knowledge should be shared. Ignorance breeds danger.''

Check _mate_ , **_Lockhart._**

* * *

Wherever Draco Malfoy travelled with Gilderoy Lockhart, the blond was always left behind when Gilderoy went to secret meetings. It was grating on the youth's nerves. Sure, he'd seen Madrid with the man and they'd eaten out and had fun sightseeing – but when was the actual learning going to begin?

He hoped Granger was just as miserable as him.

''Sir, when are you going to let me take some initiative?'' He stood in the doorframe and stopped Lockhart from exiting. Slowly, he breathed in and out and promised he wouldn't move until his mentor answered him.

''Oh, Draco, my superstar,'' the heroic wizard smiled dismissively, ''you'll know when the time is right.'' He patted him on the shoulder and pushed him out of the way. Lockhart told him he could order whatever he liked. ''I'm meeting with a friend to intervi- I meaaan catch up with! Haven't seen dear Carmelita in oh-so long. We have much to discuss!''

His knuckles were white from holding his wand tightly. Draco snapped his eyes to the sweat beads rolling down Lockhart's face. Sure, it was summer, but it wasn't that hot.

"I see. Have fun. I'll be here.''

''Marvellous, Draco! Check my mail, would you?''

''Of course, sir.'' Draco sighed. When the other wizard closed the door, he plopped down in a comfortable chair and groaned.

He thought about calling Hermione through the fireplace, but reckoned it was best not to rile her up. If he told her he didn't like Lockhart, she might tell him it was because he was meant to be her mentor.

Theo.

Yes.

He would call Theo.

With a wave of his wand, Draco lit the fireplace in the already hot Spanish weather.

The face of his childhood best friend came into view.

''I think I made a horrible mistake?'' Draco blurted out like a professional.

''Well, hello Theo! How are you doing, Theo? Fine, good, Draco, thank you for asking. You see I am seeing too many catheters to be comfortable with and you're in a Spanish five star hotel. Who made the mistake, again?''

'' _I_ did. Lockhart doesn't do anything but make me sign his fanmail.''

Theodore Nott looked at Draco Malfoy with hooded eyes of a man who'd witnessed many nude, sickly elders. ''Bully for you.''

''Theo, come on. Be sympathetic.''

''Can't you take joy in my misfortune and stop pestering me while I'm at my break? How do they expect me to eat when I have Mr. Norell next for a practise examination? His fungi have fungi.''

''Eww... Theo, why?''

''Call Granger next.''

''You know I can't talk to her about this.''

''Maybe call your grandfather? He's been coming over to visit my father and he makes _remarks_. Old pureblood grandfather remarks.''

''Ugh.'' Draco knew he should have at least sent him a letter, but he really didn't wish to speak to a man he'd begged to get a position he was now ungrateful towards.

''Mr. Norrell is here. I need to go.''

''Bye, Theo.''

''Bye, Draco.''

Draco avoided calling his grandfather.

* * *

Nott Manor had an enchanted sunny patio Abraxas loved to laze in with his best friend Thoros Nott. Everywhere else was late night except for this small haven. He sipped wine and crossed his legs, enjoying his old age as best as he could. Thoros, wisely, drank something stronger when dealing with Abraxas.

''My grandson doesn't love me anymore.''

''What makes you say that?''

''He doesn't call.'' Abraxas accused and waved his glass around, threatening to spill its contents. ''Therefore he has forgotten me and won't even come to my funeral when the time comes and it nears!'' Abraxas loved predicting his own death via arithmancy equations. It was a morbid hobby, but all elderly men had to have hobbies to occupy their time.

''Possibly he's too busy with life to talk to you? Abraxas, think sense.'' Thoros finished off his short drink and pondered whether to call a house elf for more. Abraxas' next words would tip the scale.

''Thoros, _how dare_ _you_ insinuate that I don't come first in Draco's life?''

Thoros summoned the house elf, after all.

''…Sometimes, in these odd stretches of time when we talk, I cannot discern whether you joke or not.'' The elderly Nott told him gently and asked, then, ''Why aren't you spending time with that son of yours?''

''Oh.'' There it was. That infamous pureblood snort of having a grown up son with responsibilities that didn't wish to interact with you because he had better things to do, ''Don't get me started on _Lucius_. You help bring him into the world and he doesn't even know when to start a conversation with you? It's as if I've become a guest in my own home. Perhaps I ought to move out to teach him a lesson. You don't have anyone staying with you except for Theodore – aren't you lonely?''

Thoros was not happy where this conversation was heading. That was why he asked him the one question he knew would derail the blond: ''Have you destroyed the journal yet?''

Abraxas flinched like he'd been slapped. He rubbed his arm anxiously over his flower patterned robe and whispered mainly to himself. ''I cannot do that.''

''What about the others?''

Abraxas set his glass on the table between two reclining chairs and seethed. ''I don't know where they are.''

''You, good sir, are lying.'' Thoros pointed out calmly and set his drink down, too. The two best friends stared at one another.

In the end, Abraxas cracked. He rubbed his anxious hands through his platinum hair and whispered, hoarsely, like the words compelled him to scream.

''I don't _want_ to know where they are.''

* * *

Hermione jumped from her seat, dawn birds chirping outside as she pointed at Montgomery Goldsmith and said to him, ''You know what? I can accept 'dark' magic,'' Montgomery Goldsmith gave her an approving smile when she added air quotes, "like I accept a lot of rational things. You do this – that happens. Add this and that and you get poison. It's all rational and it makes _sense_.''

Perhaps she should have gone to bed two hours ago.

The sun rose like a vicar of her mistakes.

''But _Divination_ ,'' Hermione shouted, ''makes no bloody sense!''

''You have to have _the gift_.'' Montgomery flailed his arms in a dramatic fashion.

''No, screw that, sir. It is all bollocks is what it is. I could make up right now,'' she took his coffee cup and watched the swirling lines, ''that a blond man will soon cross your path.'' Luckily for Hermione, she missed the way her prophecy-believing mentor asked quietly if she was serious. ''The key with divination is to be vague! You can't specify things! You need to lie and omit!''

''You're very passionate about this, Hermione.''

''I hate it, sir. Divination ruined my whole view of magic. It ruined me.''

Montgomery Goldsmith could relate to that.


	4. An irrefusable offer

Montgomery Goldsmith found a diligent pupil in Hermione and, therefore, decided to have her do everything he'd been putting off for months. She went to stores and brought them food, fed the snakes when he was too busy reading, updated the wards to accommodate her, and helped with other pesky errands Montgomery thought himself above.

''How good were you at Herbology?''

''Outstanding.''

''Wonderful.'' When she beamed, Montgomery shattered her happiness with a swift, ''Please, walk an hour in that direction,'' pointed with an offhanded gesture, ''and pick some hemlock for me. I need it for a potion.'' He didn't take his eyes off said potion, now a steaming brew in a pressure cooker he'd received from a kind neighbor.

''Are you making poison?'' Hermione asked as she put on some sneakers. It was sandal weather, but the tall grass swarming with snakes was not a thing Hermione wished to explore barefoot.

''Yes,'' Montgomery said plainly. When his star pupil didn't jump to her feet to go get him the plant, he set her mind at ease. ''It's a hobby. I'll teach you. We can poison philosophers together if you like.''

Pacified by his joke, Hermione felt a smile tug her lips and left her odd mentor to his work. She liked being useful.

The night before, mentor and apprentice talked theory and ethics about magical misuse. It had felt so good to have the opportunity to just _talk_ with someone like that. McGonagall wouldn't dare speak so freely about magic, and the Malfoys could never be neutral about it, family history and all.

''Listen,'' she remembered Montgomery say, ''if you pour your trust into a flawed government and think it's going to be completely ethical, you're wrong. They want you defenceless without your wand so from a young age they stroke that fire of dependency. Tell me, Miss Granger, how well can you fare without your wand?''

''Not very well.'' She admitted with a slight blush.

He didn't comment on her embarrassment. ''Isn't it overkill to have Dementors in Azkaban, then?''

''They are a necessity.'' Hermione said, recalling Dementors from her third year. The fear inside her heart had quadrupled and happiness had simply slid from her mind when around them. ''Azkaban is for heinous criminals.''

''No, Miss Granger. That is what the Dementor's kiss is for. Azkaban is used for storing people who don't agree with the Wizengamot and the Ministry.''

''Half of the people inside Azkaban are terrorists!''

Hermione remembered him grinning up at her from his armchair, watching her as she'd stood in anger at his dark point of view.

''More than half, I would say.'' Just when she thought he would agree with her and forget this strange conversation, Montgomery said, ''But, tell me, is it _ethical_ for that less than half percent to be innocent?''

''You can't tell if someone is innocent or not,'' Hermione whispered.

''Oh, but you can actually! Legilimency exists. Veritaserum exists.''

Montgomery began listing off many other things and Hermione found her knees weak at the words coming out of his mouth. She inhaled sharply. ''But it's _unethical_ to use those things against someone who hasn't consented to begin with!''

''What do you think is better for that person, Miss Granger? To be stuck in Azkaban with Dementors leeching off of their happiness, husking them into a shell of what they used to be, or to have their privacy breached? If they're guilty, it's reasonable and approved because you've caught the criminal. If not,'' he shrugged, ''no harm done.''

''What about altered memories?'' Hermione countered and watched him smirk at her, approval rolling off of him. ''What about checking for the Imperius curse? You can't say someone is innocent completely!'' Her breath turned shallow and his steady hand pulled her down to sit.

Montgomery stippled his fingers then, crimson eyes scrutinizing, and said to her, ''You surprise me, Miss Granger.'' She stared at him then, forcing to her front an edge she'd buried deep, one that she only ever revealed when in the presence of corrupt journalists. ''I never pegged you as someone who believed so firmly that the guilty outnumber the innocent.''

Hermione thought about Skeeter and slander written in paper. She thought how decisive and lacking in ethics she'd been when she'd kept the woman in a jar and gone about her day casually, as if she wasn't holding a human prisoner in an inhuman prison. Could a bad human still _really_ be human?

''How do they do it in America?'' Hermione had inquired, desperate to change the subject.

''Oh, they just shoot you dead with your own wand and call it suicide in the States. Much less paperwork.''

At her horrified expression he laughed, though it sounded more like hissing. ''I was joking, Miss Granger. Don't you like dark humour?''

''Not really.''

''It's an acquired taste, I'm told.''

Hermione shrugged, not knowing.

''The thing is, Miss Granger,'' Montgomery stood from his chair and paced around the cracked, glass coffee table, ''people who think they deserve a more powerful position begin to slack off when they see that promotion is nowhere to be found. Slacking off when dealing with crime is,'' he paused for dramatic effect, _''stupid_. It gives a loophole for criminals to exploit.''

''Sir, how come you know so much about crime?''

''Oh,'' he took her hand in his and shook it, ''I'm the retired head of a magical terrorist group. I moved to Montenegro to avoid prosecution. It is good to have you here, Miss Granger.''

Hermione laughed at his absurd joke.

But now, as Hermione picked the hemlock from an overgrown garden, she couldn't help but think a little about what he'd said. It was true, whether she wanted to admit it or not. What happened to her mentorship was the exact premise of a flawed ministry system where bribery and corruption worked.

She finished picking the poisonous herbs and set off home. It was time to learn how to brew poison _and_ their cures.

''You can never brew one without knowing the other. It's irresponsible and you risk being poisoned yourself.'' Montgomery told her when to stir clockwise and when to stir anti. Hermione wrote down his instructions and greedily watched him work. He looked content whilst she asked questions, but his morbid jokes got under her skin.

He showed her to a cabinet in his kitchen that was divided in two sides. One was for the poisons and the other for the cures. Most were colour coded, save for two transparent bottles which simply had 'AM' on them. One bottle was on the poison side and the other was on the cure side, but they looked identical.

''What're those, sir?'' Hermione pointed them out.

Her mentor looked from his cooker-improvised cauldron and glanced at the bottles. ' _'Nothing_ ,'' came the too quick reply. Her mentor let out a laugh that nearly verged on distraught. ''Don't concern yourself, Miss Granger, with my hobbies.'' His usually steady hands turned shaky. Jittery fingers pulled out a different vial, this one labelled 'Poskok'. He handed it to her and told her it was antivenom.

Hermione allowed the switch in topic. It wasn't any of her business, anyhow. ''So, is this one better than a bezoar?''.

It took her mentor three essay length explanations to calm down completely. His face remained tense, his shoulders went rigid, and his mouth pressed into a contemplative line. He talked to her about Greeks and venoms and snakes and parselmouth communities he'd wanted to visit and Hermione asked him about magic and branches she'd never thought to ask before. When one taught horcruxes as the first lesson, other types of magic weren't going to scare him off.

Perhaps this wouldn't be so bad. Hermione laughed at a pun in Latin Goldsmith told her. No, perhaps it wouldn't be bad at all.

* * *

In a fraught attempt to dig himself out of his grave, Dumbledore sent Abraxas Malfoy a letter. It arrived diligently, carried by his Phoenix in clasped talons. The Lord Malfoy pried it from the overgrown bird and shooed it away. After reading it he sat down to write his reply.

He couldn't wait to see his family's reaction. Abraxas sent another letter to Thoros to let him know of the changes in his routine. In cursive letters, the reply came from his oldest friend.

_You have gone senile. I will have nothing to do with this. Tell me how Lucius reacts._

Abraxas snickered like an old, implacable man.

* * *

News travelled quickly in Wizarding Britain. Abraxas rubbed his hands together like a fly and waited for people to tell him he was insane. Especially his son, whom always thought he knew what was best.

Lucius strode into Malfoy Manor in an unsophisticated manner, subdued fear dancing behind those crystal clear eyes. He found Abraxas in the sitting room, pretending to read a stack of handwritten papers. Familiar loops and twirls of lettering brought nostalgia to Abraxas' mind, but he hadn't the time for it right now. Loads of these spells they'd been taught as children were illegal. Abraxas crossed out some more lessons. Reading exhausted him easily.

''Why does _Dumbledore_ want to have you over to Hogwarts for a meeting, father?''

Abraxas dramatically sighed and stopped his work. Lucius squirmed. Whenever his father got theatrical, there would be bad business.

''I wish to offer my services to the school. Perhaps in this old age, when family has decided to ignore me,'' Abraxas glared at his son, ''I shall take to having students seek my approval.''

'' _You_ are going to teach?'' Lucius asked, bewildered. He sat opposite of his father in the sunny sitting room and added, ''Do you think that is wise?''

''Why _ever_ not, my son? Do you think your own father incapable of sharing knowledge?''

Lucius had the discretion and good upbringing to smother his laugh in a suffocating coughing fit. At his father's stormy gaze the younger Malfoy amended carefully: ''Forgive me.'' Abraxas nodded. ''Father, what position has he offered you?''

''You know which one.''

Lucius stood form his chair and went to the bathroom to run himself a stress-free bath with scented candles and a good book. As he climbed the stairs, he heard his father shout, ''I have a good lesson plan, too!''

Lucius turned and saw Abraxas raise a stack of papers written in 1945 by a retail working hand. ''You can't say I'm unprepared.''

The elder Malfoy watched his son forgo the bath and hurry back downstairs.

''Father, please.'' Lucius fell to his knees, begging his father in the privacy of two Malfoys. ''You hate children.''

''I liked Draco.'' Abraxas defended himself poorly.

''From a distance. Maman brought me up and you only ever held Draco if you had to.'' Lucius took his father's ringed hand and kissed it. ''Father, please. Dumbledore is planning something – he is my political adversary and now you wish to teach schoolchildren parroting his words and thoughts? Most of them cannot even write properly.'' Abraxas was nearly finished saying, 'So? Neither could I,' when Lucius overtook him: ''They're all screeching banshees. Don't do this.''

Abraxas flicked his kissed hand at Lucius' face and the son stood, disapproving.

''Hogwarts is a neutral playing field. I bear no mark.'' Abraxas showed Lucius his bare arms. Lucius flinched at the verbal slap. ''And besides,'' the old Malfoy rose to his aching feet, ''I wish to have some fun. I can handle a year of teaching.'' He straightened out his robe, the one Lucius always begged him to only wear in private.

''Father, since you feel we've hurt you… why don't we go on holiday? Somewhere sunny for those tired bones of yours, maybe? Didn't you always want to visit the Mediterranean? Italy is beautiful this time of year.''

Abraxas gaped at him. The nerve of this boy. He got this kind of behaviour from his French mother.

Lucius went on: ''It'll be a good change. We could have Draco join us for a day or two, even.''

Abraxas raised a meticulously trimmed brow.

''Father…''

''Lucius, do be a dear and step away from my path so I can floo to Hogwarts.''

Lucius gritted his teeth, but obliged. ''At least change out of the robe-''

''I _like_ this robe.'' Abraxas pulled his robe into sunlight, where it turned from plain black to and ocean of colours. ''It was enchanted by a dear friend.''

''Thoros?'' Lucius begged to be right.

''You know who, Lucius. Don't be _dense_.''

Lucius tensed.

Abraxas laughed and stepped into the fireplace. In a spark of green, he disappeared to Hogwarts. Under his arm a magic bound lesson plan; in his other hand, his trademark onyx cane.

The fresh breath of magic crackling with youth and élan swept Abraxas up in a flurry of memories. Paintings of previous headmasters and headmistresses lined the walls of the headmaster's office. Inside it, at the imposing desk with a curious Phoenix, sat Dumbledore.

''Ah, Mr. Malfoy,'' Dumbledore stood and gestured for Abraxas to sit.

The old Malfoy sat. The Phoenix cawed at him curiously, but didn't feel threatened. Birds always liked him. Dumbledore's eyes twinkled at this outcome; Abraxas figured he'd expected his bird to screech at him as if he were evil incarnate. Tough luck there, Dumbledore.

It was odd to be sitting with one's professor as a seventy-one year old.

''It is good to see you, Mr. Malfoy. I am happy you agreed to meet.'' After pointing to the two steaming cups of tea, Dumbledore offered, ''Lemon drop?''

''No, thank you.'' Abraxas reclined into his chair. ''I found your letter most curious. Nobody wants the haunted position anymore, do they?''

Dumbledore's brief micro twitch overjoyed Abraxas. He clapped his hands and let out a small Ha! ''It's true, isn't it? Half a century of DADA professors quitting after a year of work has finally made it a position nobody wants! Oh, if only Tom could see this.''

Dumbledore blinked. ''You call him Tom?''

''It is his name, professor.''

The Headmaster smiled at his once pupil. ''I haven't taught in years, Mr. Malfoy. Please, call me Albus.''

Abraxas inclined his head to nod. ''Of course, Albus. As we will be colleagues come September, I would prefer you address me as Abraxas.''

''So, you _will_ take the position?''

''Eh.'' Abraxas admitted. ''It'll be more entertaining than my usual hobby: dying horribly.''

Dumbledore elected not to comment. ''It will be most curious to watch how the curse interacts with you.''

Good humour gone, Abraxas coughed profusely at that. He bent his back forward and took out a handkerchief to spit into. When he unveiled it briefly, it was red.

''I'd like to die being known as a professor at Hogwarts.'' Abraxas went on with his fatalist humour. He breathed heavily and took the tea. It wasn't even good.

''I hate to have to ask this of you now, but while summer vacation is still on, perhaps it would do you good to write up a lesson plan. As it is your first time, I could help you with it, Abraxas.''

Abraxas set the high stack of revised papers on his desk.

Dumbledore immediately recognized the handwriting. He didn't need to see the crossed out T.M.R. to know whom it belonged to.

Over his half-moon spectacles, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore watched Abraxas Hyperion Malfoy, like a phoenix being mocked by a showy peacock.

''I've taken the liberty to adapt it to the modern era. School reformations the Ministry has forced down your throat have not been kind on the teaching staff.'' Abraxas smiled and patted his amour's lesson plan.

''You are playing with fiendfyre, Abraxas,'' Dumbledore whispered. He looked over the revised lesson plan. The last bit of sanity Tom Riddle had, had been poured into these intricate swirls. After the rejection Dumbledore was responsible for Riddle had fallen deep into the abyss.

''I know, Albus. But I hope you, also, know he would have been content to stay here forever.'' Hogwarts had been his home, Abraxas wished to scream at the man responsible for the third and fourth and fifth horcrux. ''Politics and war were never what he wanted.''

''The most important thing,'' Dumbledore condemned, ''was that you were by his side every step of the twisted way. I may have sealed his fate, but you enabled him throughout his down spiral.''

''True,'' Abraxas admitted in a cold, freezing voice. The portraits listening in and, recording the conversation, leaned forward in their paintings. ''All of what you've said is true. But I would not be an enemy of the monster you created.''

''He was born as such.''

Abraxas guffawed at the statement Dumbledore harboured and cultivated as true.

''Oh, you're positively deluded, Albus!'' Abraxas raised his hands in the air, his ever changing robe sliding down to reveal bony arms stricken with Dragon Pox scars. ''It is in your nature to twist people who seek your approval and wish to earn your trust.'' He felt bile travel up his throat. ''First with your lover, and then with mine.''

''You are free to think that, Abraxas.''

''Albus, it _costs_ to think against you in this day and age you have tailored to your liking.'' Venom spat at Albus Dumbledore. It was a dangerous thing to do.

Dumbledore took a deep breath and showed a moment of weakness in front of the man left behind. Just as he'd been when Grindelwald was locked up.

''They cannot be loved.'' Abraxas would have yelled at Dumbledore right then and there that he loved Tom more than he loved Antoinette, but the glimpse of tears in Dumbledore's eyes stopped him. ''People like them are vacuums of horror and destruction. They cannot love.''

Abraxas took a handful of lemon drops from the bowl and put them in his robe's pockets just to be spiteful. To carry his point across, Abraxas straightened to his full height and towered over the sitting man, leaning on his black cane. ''I cannot speak for Grindelwald,'' he said to the frail, beaten headmaster, ''but Tom loved. He _loved_ magic.'' He stepped closer and snarled. ''He _loved_ Hogwarts.'' Dumbledore raised his misty gaze and met with a maelstrom, ''He would have _loved_ to teach. And you denied him that love. _The one life he wanted for himself, and you denied him!_ ''

Paintings rattled and magic sizzled like thin ice cracked. ''You know _not_ such boundless love. It frightens you. War frightens you. The jinx he left frightens you. Tom Marvolo Riddle frightened you and you had to get rid of him.''

''That is not at all-'' Albus Dumbledore tried to justify his unforgivable actions to Abraxas Malfoy.

The sickly wizard leaned on his cane and it almost tore a hole into the floor below. He shook with rage for another. ''Do you ever wonder what Prometheus could have done had the arrogant, scared gods not punished him for thinking differently than them?''

''Tom Riddle would have destroyed the world, my boy.''

''You do NOT call me that!'' Abraxas swung the cane from off of the floor and slammed it down on Dumbledore's desk. Fawkes chirped, confused by the shift in demeanour. Albus Dumbledore gave him a pitying, condescending smile that he always wore when met with disagreement. What delusions of greatness, thought Abraxas.

''Forgive me, Mr. Malfoy,'' Albus pacified.

Abraxas rose his head in a patrician sneer and let out a loud, high laugh that reminisced a peacock's caw. Once it ran its course, leaning again on the cane, Abraxas pushed himself forward and stated: ''It is not my forgiveness you should be asking for, Albus Dumbledore.''

''It is neither Tom Riddle's.''

''You were wrong about him.'' Abraxas Malfoy whispered sadly, mourning. Then, because pettiness fuelled him and helped him stay alive, the lord added, ''Congratulations on killing all of the love Tom Riddle had.''

''Mr. Malfoy-'' Dumbledore began, but Abraxas waved him shut by saying, ''It is **Lord** Malfoy. Do excuse me now, for we shall next speak in August to discuss my position in Hogwarts some more.''

He floo'd back to Malfoy Manor.

After that Abraxas apparated in front of the painting of his scowling mother. He'd cast the most potent silencing charm on her because her words held more death in them than any illness. Yvette Malfoy had not been a kind and approving mother. She was made of angular lines lined with thorns and sharp edges that _hurt_. Abraxas remembered she could make anyone cry just by looking at them. Papa had been forced to marry her just like he'd been forced to marry Antoinette.

Every day he thanked Lucius and Narcissa for loving each other.

He murmured a spell under his breath and the painting swung to allow him entrance to a secret room in Malfoy Manor. He swallowed down a cough.

Sitting on a wrapped magical rug, a journal covered in dust beckoned to be opened.

Abraxas flung it open and hurriedly conjured a pencil out of thin air. It was less complicated than to summon a quill and bottle of ink.

He wrote in it slowly, worried that if he did this too quickly no response would come.

_Hello, Tom. It is 1998 right now and I have outlived you. I apologise for not keeping in touch, but there has been quite a lot going on. My wife Antoinette turned out to be terrible – I suppose you do not know who she is. My mignon grandson grew into a disappointment. Albus Dumbledore is still being incredibly difficult…_

Before he could get another word in, he saw hasty letters appear.

_Ha. Whoever you are, you are hilarious. Obviously you know me, but introductions have to go both ways for this prank to work._

At this, Abraxas narrowed his eyes.

_It is Abraxas Malfoy. I thought my handwriting would be similar enough for you to know it._

Deliberately slow letters formed on the page then.

_Of course. Your handwriting is jittery, but it is yours. Tell me, 'Abraxas',_

Abraxas closed the journal then and left it. He'd forgotten what an exhausting affair it was to talk with teenagers. He would fire-call Thoros to tell him of Dumbledore’s horrendous behaviour.

* * *

''Draco, my superstar!'' Lockhart beamed at his apprentice and slapped him on the back. Draco staggered forward, careful not to spill the coffee he'd gone to the other part of Madrid for, bribing an uppity wizard to brew it, as Lockhart had called it, 'just so', for an absurd amount of money.

''How was your chat with Carmelita?'' Draco handed him the coffee cup. The wizard's smile stretched. Perfect, Hermione-approved teeth grinned up at him.

''Splendid! I got so many useful tips from her.'' He sipped his coffee and made a spectacle out of enjoying it. Each sip elicited a moan out of him and Draco Malfoy thought of many different ways he could be spending his time.

When the man drained his cup, he wrapped an arm around Draco's and whispered into his ear. ''You wanted some action? I have on good authority that there is a lead to an international criminal ring in Poland. Those Slavs, am I right?''

Draco Malfoy prayed his unutilised skills would finally be seen. ''We're actually going on an adventure?''

''You betcha, superstar! And, if things go smoothly, you can even be credited as ghost-writing my next book!''

Draco Malfoy bit back 'finally' and graciously accepted the honour. First thing he did after unpacking both Lockhart and him in Poland was calling Theo and bragging about his accomplishments.

* * *

Theodore Nott called Hermione Granger from the fireplace in her new room, newly extended with her mentor's blessing.

And no amount of beautiful conversations with her odd mentor could make up for the fact that Draco Malfoy (who always wrote worse essays than her) would be credited as ghost-writing the next _Gildreoy Lockhart_ bestseller!

No.

This was too much.

Theodore tried making her feel better about the situation by telling her a cute anecdote about some guy named Mr. Norrell and his strange companion, but Hermione quickly shut him down. She told him she had to call someone else about this.

''Pansy is too busy planning how to propose to Millie. Her business has really taken off.''

Hermione's best option was out of the window. She looked like a wet rat and Theodore took pity on her.

''You can call Potter. He was recently brought in here.'' Theo whispered as if it was the greatest thing ever. ''He threw up and fainted during Auror training. He may be the Boy Who Lived, but he's a laughingstock in the Auror department.''

''Thanks, Theo.'' Hermione blew him a kiss. ''You're the best.''

Harry and she were good friends during Hogwarts. He was simpler than her in a lot of ways, but she knew deep down he was smart. In different ways. Though, right now, Hermione just needed someone who was hurting just as badly as she was.

''HARRY!'' She merrily exclaimed when she saw his face appear in the fireplace. ''How have you been? I'm so happy to have caught you, I know you must be so busy these days. I thought we could catch up.''

* * *

Having finished brewing the hemlock poison, Montgomery bottled it up and hid it in his special poison compartment. Small vials of various shapes lined his vision, carefully categorized by potency. Montgomery didn't enjoy recalling that, in his last years as Lord Voldemort, he'd spent an abundance of his time just cursing people and making them hurt. He saw traitors everywhere around him.

The 'AM' bottles made him purse his lips and _think_.

There was no news of his death – not that many people would go to his funeral. His Abraxas had cultivated a reputation of a man that knew everyone's secrets. It was a shame he was still alive. The illness he'd forced on him was painful. Could he lead Hermione on and have her be the inventor to the modified Dragon Pox cure? Would Abraxas let him help him indirectly?

Surely, he would understand it as an apology.

Then again, why should _he_ apologise? It was Abraxas Malfoy who ought to be prostrating himself and begging for forgiveness. Ire coursed through Voldemort. Idiot peacock man. Though, because Tom knew the aristocrat, he also knew that his best bet at staying alive and safe was to just keep his head low and not think about the damned Malfoy. If Abraxas found out that he was alive, there would be retribution. Their last meeting hadn't gone … as smoothly as Voldemort had hoped.

Abraxas would _ruin_ him.

Giving him the cure would lead Abraxas to Montgomery and he _refused_ to die again. In his anger, Abraxas would no doubt tell the whole world of his new identity and destroy him.

One of the vials was a cure. The other was a dosage necessary for putting Abraxas Malfoy out of his life and misery.

Best to just let nature run its course.

With an uneasy breath, Montgomery closed the compartment and moved towards his bedroom.

As he passed by Hermione's door, he heard her exclaim, ''HARRY!''

He froze in place. Crimson eyes glued to the closed door. For a moment, the only sound he heard was the uncomfortably loud rushing of blood to his head and the anxious beating of his heart. Montgomery forced himself to the door to eavesdrop.

''Hey, Hermione.'' _Harry Potter_ said. ''How's the apprenticeship going?''

Ugh. His voice was the most annoying thing Lord Voldemort had ever heard. And he'd lived in the same House as Walburga Black for seven years.

His dear apprentice best choose her words carefully.

'' _What are you doing?''_

Voldemort looked down. The poskok had slithered upstairs silently like snakes tended to do. It was his fault for leaving everything ajar for snakes to lurk in and out. Voldemort pushed the snake with his flip flop clad foot. It hissed angrily at him, then made a show of widening its mouth to nibble at his foot. The retired Dark Lord hissed back at it quietly, making sure Hermione didn't catch him.

'' _Go away. You don't have to eat this often.''_

''-and that's pretty much it, Harry.''

Damn the snake, Voldemort didn't hear what Hermione had said to _Harry Potter_ about him.

''I wish I'd gone into teaching as you'd told me. Defence Against The Dark Arts was always my favourite. Or professional quidditch. I mean, I like helping people, but becoming an Auror is really hard. We have training every day.''

The mere NERVE of Harry Potter to think he could become a professor at Hogwarts riled the ex-Dark Lord up far more than his initial demise did.

It had been seventeen long years since his death and the unsung prophecy still weighed heavy on his mind. Voldemort decided, for the sake of his health, he should stop listening in.

''Can you believe that prat, Harry?'' Voldemort heard Harry Potter make an inquiring noise. ''Draco Malfoy is going to be Gilderoy Lockhart's ghost writer! Gah!''

Was she _still_ on about that?

Let it go, Hermione, Montgomery wished to tell her. Some things aren't worth giving the time of day.

''Maybe you should let it go?''

Okay, how dare Harry Potter think similarly to the great Lord Voldemort? Just for this, Voldemort vowed to kill him.

'' _Stop ignoring me. I came to talk. I'm bored. There's always drama happening around you. Are you listening to me?''_

Voldemort nudged the poskok away again.

And then the most venomous snake in Montenegro bit his foot.

He fell into Hermione's room and _Harry Potter_ saw him dressed in a T-shirt suggestive of the USA flag, his scales and red eyes all out in the open. All someone had to do now was compare a Daily Prophet from the 1960s with Harry Potter's memory of this occurrence and they'd **know**.

Fuck.

''Hermione, is that your mentor?''

FUCK.

''Sir, are you all right? I'll go fetch you antivenom!''

FUCKING _CHRIST._

'' _Oh, you won't die. I didn't even bite that deep. Stop being so dramatic. Next time actually listen to what I have to say.''_

Harry Potter looked at the snake as if he **understood** it.

**_NO NO NO NO NO._ **

Biting back a painful scream, Voldemort swiped his hand and cut the call. Harry Potter's face sizzled out of the fireplace just as Hermione brought him the antidote. He drank it quickly in large, desperate gulps. When life came back to his pale and terrified face, he grasped Hermione Granger's wrist tightly and whispered, ''You saved my life.''

Not that he could die. But the thought of him coming undone like he had in 1981 petrified him.

''Sir, it's fine.'' Hermione reassured.

''It's not.'' He told her and she helped him to his feet. ''Miss Granger, you are the greatest apprentice one could hope for. If you ever need something, _anything_ , turn to me.''

Hermione accepted the boon, not knowing what a privilege it was to have Lord Voldemort owe you.

The poskok hissed. Lord Voldemort cast one look at it and, with a quick swipe of his hand, its head severed.

He'd wasted too much of his valuable time speaking with snakes.


	5. Voldemort's back on his bullshit

For Draco's birthday, his mentor gave him a few weeks off. ''Go, my superastar, have some fun with your family!''

He arrived to Malfoy Manor to see his grandfather waving about a wand, shouting through sickness and delirium. ''Lucius! I have been lenient, wouldn't you say? Your repetitive arguments tire me!''

The context was lost to him. Later, his mother would fill him in. Lucius had told his father many a time not to take up Dumbledore's offer to teach at Hogwarts. They'd fought verbally until his grandfather – always a short fuse on him when it came to his personal beliefs and business – had brandished his wand to threaten some sense into his grown son.

''I do not trust his motives, father!''

Lucius had taken out his wand as well, and was making sure to placate his somewhat senile father, for violence from a Malfoy was never a sign of lucidity.

''You think _I_ **do**?'' Abraxas let out a high laugh and then began to cough, bending over to steady himself. Tears dripped from lack of breath, panic in his chest squeezed, and a clot of blood in his throat neither went out nor slipped down his throat.

Draco surged to his grandfather first, then Lucius, and finally Narcissa with a healer they'd paid to live in their home. That, too, had been a conversation riddled with threats and duels.

''Grand-père,'' Draco whispered and wrapped the other's arms around him, ''take it easy. You're fine.''

It was never kind to live with sickness. Most sick people usually said their only hope was to get better. Abraxas was not most people. He didn't wish himself well, but longed for every single one of his friends to fall just as ill as him, because he knew no cure would come for him. Not when his fate rested in the hands of a dead man, too proud and arrogant and sure in his immortality to tell anyone else how to cure the modified Dragon Pox.

''I am not fine.'' Abraxas rasped and held onto his grandson. ''Oh, dear grandson-mine, I am not fine, at all.''

After everything had calmed down, the healer having cast pain remedying spells on Abraxas, the Malfoys welcomed their youngest and told him what they planned for his birthday.

''The Quidditch World Cup is going to be held on the fifteenth. It's near your birthday, so your grandfather decided to give you tickets.'' Narcissa's still tone didn't irk the lord Malfoy who tried, and failed, to focus his vision as he stared at Draco. His form doubled, then singled out, then tripled.

Draco sat close to his grandfather, watching in case something happened to worsen his health. The other didn't speak, much less say he felt a fever overcoming his senses.

''Your father and I have decided it would be best if we spent your birthday with a few close friends. Nott, Granger, Parkinson – anyone you wish to invite.'' Narcissa continued.

Draco knew what they meant, much before his grandfather could react. ''And the Greengrass, correct?''

''Naturally. Astoria is to be your betrothed.'' Lucius said, and Abraxas raised his head from his hands. Upon feeling his father's eyes on him, Lucius straightened and turned frigid. Draco knew that his father had been a Death Eater and fought in a war, but it always confused him when Abraxas, his kind grandfather, elicited such a powerful, fearful reaction.

''I don't particularly like courting children,'' Draco said. He thought Pansy would be his wife, but then Pansy had called him out on his piss-poor behaviour towards her and called whatever they had had off.

Plus, she’d also eloped with Millicent Bulstrode so there was that elephant none of his parents or her parents were ready to acknowledge.

''There will be a long wait, of course. She's fourteen and, in three to six years, you might even grow fond of her.'' Narcissa carefully picked her words, lest she irritate both her father-in-law and her son.

Were Abraxas in better health, he would have refused to have this embarrassing betrothal continue. Alas, he could only hold his peace as Draco nodded his head to appease his mother.

''Do you think you'll be able to go, given your condition?'' Draco asked, meaning his wedding, Abraxas inferring the quidditch matches. He rarely thought about whether he could go to things that were years in advance.

''I'd never miss such an event.'' Abraxas rasped.

Draco smiled. ''Then I'm fine with whatever.'' His parents beamed at each other and summoned house elves to prepare for the birthday party.

''Are you going to invite Hermione?' Abraxas asked. ''I have taken liberty of getting her a ticket, as well.''

''We haven't spoken since graduation.''

''Vindictive wench.'' Abraxas snickered. ''I knew since the first time you cried to me about her that she was trouble.''

''And yet you made him be friends with her.'' Draco groaned.

Lucius found the courage to sit down next to his father.

''Well, suddenly I have a dire need to retire to my bed.'' He ruffled Draco's well-kept hair before apparating to his room. Usually, using magic was ill-advised for Abraxas because of his condition, but being in Lucius' presence made him choose torture over listening to his son.

Lucius shook his head and muttered profanities under his breath. Draco pressed his lips in a thin line and pitied his grandfather.

As horrible as the thought was, Narcissa wished Abraxas away before September.

It was never easy to live with a sick man.

* * *

Tom Marvolo Riddle was not a mentally healthy man. Definitely not. When one added up all of the factors that played a key role in making him into the man he was, one stopped wondering why I-am-Lord-Voldemort did the things he did. The Gaunts, the Riddles, the orphanage, the War, Dumbledore, the _Wizarding_ War, Bella Black, _Walburga_ Black, horcruxes, prophecies, Abraxas Malfoy – though the last one he'd brought upon himself – all morphed into anything but a mentally sound man.

Montgomery Goldsmith came as a product one got when they asked an ill man to play healthy for fun. He took a sip of a cup of black tea and calculated. An uncomfortable shudder ran through him. Outside of the cabin he lived in, the Montenegrin sun scorched. Below, in the Kotor Old Town, thousands of tourists circulated. Hermione, he'd sent grocery shopping.

Another sign of being not 100% in the head was talking to snakes more often than people. There was being introverted and there was being … _that_. Banishing the snakes off of his property with powerful wards was a progressive thing to do. Montgomery Goldsmith had higher hopes for himself than to simply rot away with serpents in a country nobody from his once prominent social circle even knew could be habitable.

A cold rush surged through him. Hairs on his arms prickled at attention. To make an antonym to his situation, sweat pooled from his skin.

''None of this is good.'' Montgomery Goldsmith whispered and sipped the tea again, mindful of the near boiling liquid inside. Shook his head and repeated, ''No, none of this is any good.''

At his prime, he'd been the most powerful wizard the world had ever seen; then, the most laughed at wizard after a baby had vanquished him. Montgomery had enough common sense to know it was the mother's powerful magic that rebounded the killing curse, but a halfblood was a better figurehead than a muggleborn.

''It's June. You're still cold.'' It wasn't quite sane to speak to oneself, but it could be tolerated. Montgomery murmured a warming charm and coated his form in it. ''This is the third one you've cast.''

However, as much as he would wish to believe that his predicament – ailment – was solely because of his new body, a nagging thought dragged him down into unnecessary despair. Souls were rather important bits of one's self. The first time he'd split it, Tom Riddle thought that the cold would kill him. Alas, he could not die. The second and third and fourth and fifth times he'd done the deed, the cold numbed Lord Voldemort. By that time, he'd grown used to the consequences. By that time, he'd forgotten what it was like to be warm.

The heat of being reborn had reminded him. It had also damned him into realising the vast difference between the usual cold and the rare warmth of being.

The television was turned on some French drama he could vaguely understand. His French comprehension was severely lacking. It was some love nonsense. He ought to write instead, to think of ways to animate the knowledge-hungry pupil in his care.

Yet.

Oh yet.

The drama fascinated him in a very procrastinator-like way he didn't wish to admit to succumbing to. The girl was having to choose between two men. This was just the kind of thing that ought to occupy him until he summoned enough sense to right himself.

A girl was lying in bed and contemplating.

''Francois is _rich_ ,'' the girl said. ''But Jacques **loves** me.''

Voldemort stared at the television and sipped his scalding tea deliberately slowly so he could stretch the beverage over the course of an hour. ''I wouldn't even _question_ it,'' the retired Dark Lord said. ''Go with economic security, you dim-witted twat. Love will only lead you to pain and a swamp infested with Dementors.''

It was some sort of marathon. After finishing four episodes, two more teas, and added three more warming charms to his person, Montgomery Goldsmith realised he should go out into the world. Stretch his legs. _Frolic_.

Those screeching insects outside were killing him. What was it that they were called again? Cicadas? When he gave it another thought, Voldemort realised that their name was irrelevant as he would forever continue to think of them as the insect version of Walburga Black.

He apparated to Zorka's home. She wasn't stupid enough to turn him down for tea.

''I don't drink tea.'' Zorka deadpanned upon hearing his plea for human company.

He was the saddest faux-American she'd ever seen. Montgomery Goldsmith was wearing a Hawaiian T-shirt he'd bought only because he'd once seen some American tourists wearing it to Britain. Or he'd been gifted it by Zorka's brother, the sailor. He wasn't quite sure. A lot of things he couldn't remember were crucial. His mind was jumbled and it stopped running sometimes. He had gaps in memory throughout his time as a wraith and just before it. The magical trauma inflicted upon him by Lily Potter’s magic had destroyed his once clockwork mind. It slowly rebuilt, which was more important to him than his soul was. He'd rather be soulless than ill, really.

Hermione helped. She and Zorka engaged him in ways he'd not had people do in a long time. Montenegro served as a perfect escape, a place where he could safely learn to get better and piece himself together. The cold was even lessening. (Rarely, but there _were_ periods when he didn't have any warming spells on himself)

''Whatever you have is fine,'' he struggled to say.

Zorka only told him she had alcohol. ''Rakija's good.'' She explained.

''I didn't know you were a day drinker.'' Voldemort raised his brows in surprise. What a revelation.

'' _All_ people from the Balkan are day drinkers,'' Zorka patiently explained.

Montgomery Goldsmith never drank. Under any name, he loathed the thought of alcohol.

''It warms the drinker nicely,'' she added, fully aware that would be his tipping point.

''Pour me one, lest I appear rude.'' He said, trying for nonchalance.

So the two magical folk drank and talked. Zorka was staying in today – to mourn, she said.

''Who's died?'' Tom Marvolo Riddle asked, not quite caring, but not quite able to stop himself from learning gossip. Being friends with Abraxas Malfoy and Thoros Nott had made him privy to so much information it was obscene. Not even spies handled so many facts.

''My son, a few years ago.'' Zorka forced a shrug as she stared at the tiny glass in front of her. She poured herself more rakija, not offering any to Montgomery. ''You didn't know that?''

''I tend to stay out of your mind since you afford me the same courtesy.''

Lord Voldemort had never stopped himself from reading his interlocutors. Montgomery Goldsmith steadied his hand. Mostly because the finesse with which he'd once traversed another mind had rusted.

''Does that have something to do with your husband?'' he asked. Zorka had told him she had put her husband in a hospital for the mentally ill. The Tom Marvolo Riddle in him had wretched at the mentioning of such a place, but Goldsmith had not let it show.

''How do you call non-magical people born to magical parents, Monty?''

''Squibs.'' He eyed the rakija bottle and thought that, given his long and complex relationship with see-through drinks, he ought to not have another. But on the other hand, rakija didn't taste like _nothing_. It had a taste and it was strong and Montgomery poured himself another small glass.

Whether Zorka was approving or not didn't register from her facial expressions. Instead, she was looking down into her empty glass and whispering, ''Yes, _Squib_. Well, we **_don't_** have a word for them. Not something so **ugly**. Nothing that makes you clutch your heart and hiss in pain.'' Zorka breathed heavily and hid her face in her hand. She had worker hands. It suited her.

Montgomery watched her, catalogued her every movement, every laboured breath. She had quirked her lips, but the smile wasn't kind in nature. He had seen it many times on Abraxas' face when he spoke of Antoinette.

''We just call them slow, late bloomer, just-wait-it'll-happen, you're-both-magic-just- _wait_.'' Zorka laughed. She had no tears to shed. ''My husband couldn't take it, you see.''

''Did he kill the child?'' It was the Tom Riddle in him that first associated any familial problem with murder.

Zorka shook her head. ''Not on purpose.''

She left to go into her kitchen and get something to eat. Even through her pain, the need to be hospitable overrode all else. Inside the kitchen, she began to cut up bacon and cheese to rearrange on a platter. It was called _meza_ and it was the epitome of 'quick I have uninvited guests and I need to put something out to appear as a host that is prepared at all times'.

In the living room, Montgomery didn't quite know whether to turn on the television or sit in suffocating silence. Both seemed equally preposterous options for one retired Dark Lord, yet there he was.

Perhaps he should have continued watching his French programme. It wouldn't be the first time he'd spent an entire day wasting away in front of the muggle invention. Not to mention the abundance of VHS tapes Zorka had given him to store in his humble abode. One time, Montgomery remembered simply watching Tom & Jerry tapes all under the guise of wanting to listen to some classical music when, in fact, he was having one of his Tom Riddle moments where he realised that, much alike the cat named Tom, he was doomed to failure.

It wasn't one of his prouder moments.

''I have to make a move and kill Dumbledore.'' Montgomery abruptly said.

Zorka, carrying her plate of meza, almost let it fall onto the ground. It would have been the saddest thing ever to happen to Zorka's Balkan heart and she was a mother whose son had died and husband had been deemed unfit to function. Meza was very important in Balkan culture.

''You don't have to do anything.'' Zorka placed the plate onto the living room table and blinked owlishly at Montgomery. ''Stay low. Let the prophecy child grow.''

''So he can kill me? I think not.'' Voldemort's paranoia was peeling back Montgomery's laid back attitude easily.

''He cannot kill you. You have _life insurance_.'' Zorka winked at the joke, having composed herself enough. Montgomery found it indescribably unfunny. He helped himself to the meza. There wasn't a damned thing meza couldn't fix.

''I will never let that happen to me again.'' Voldemort said, inferring to his time as a wraith. Sometimes, when he recalled those moments, he recalled wishing he'd been killed properly. They were rare moments of self-doubt, but they were there nonetheless.

''My husband found some spells to transfer magic. He thought that if he gave his magic to our son it would make him a wizard.'' Zorka said and, at Montgomery's prompting noise, continued. ''It backfired, naturally.''

''And it killed your son.''

''He broke after that. Blamed himself just as much as I blamed him, too. Blamed me for my father is a muggle just as much as I blamed his distant squib relative he had tried to hide. I obliviated him in the end.'' Zorka's voice was emotionless. She was forcing herself to appear undeterred.

''But you went too far.'' Montgomery found that the platter of food wasn't as appetizing as before. ''If he was aware of his thoughts, he'd probably beg for death, wouldn't he?''

Zorka forced another shrug, this time a sob escaped her as she keened it. ''Of course he would.''

Montgomery took out a pack of orange Paloma tissues to offer to the distressed witch. To do the bare minimum was enough. These were scentless, especially made for people with allergies. It was definitely above the bare minimum to offer her these tissues, but Tom Riddle never did things halfway. She laughed at his awkwardness, but took the tissues nonetheless.

''Pretend.'' Zorka instructed. ''I know you're quite good at it. You seduced quite a few women. Pretend you know how to deal with grieving women.''

''I'm finding myself more and more exhausted by pretending,'' the retired Dark Lord confessed.

''Pity. Tom Marvolo Riddle was quite a polite young boy.'' Zorka poked fun because a change in topic would be appreciated.

A snort escaped the wizard. Zorka had obviously only seen the posh-pretending Tom Riddle memories. People often forgot that he'd spent a good portion of his formative years in a London orphanage. ''I cursed more than you can imagine. Abraxas clipped my tongue and taught me to speak like pureblood aristocracy.'' Riddle laughed, remembering him fondly. ''I think the first time he heard me curse was the first time he had ever heard curses.''

''Nooo.''

To the Balkans cursing was second nature. First was going to war. Third was drinking.

Bella Black was restrained, much too much. Walburga Black only screeched, but even those were never sprinkled with profanity. Abraxas Malfoy and Thoros Nott seldom – if ever – indulged him and spoke their mind.

Zorka Mrvaljević was a good companion to keep. She was loyal enough not to hide.

''Now, if I were, say, off the top of my head, planning on making up a small team of witches and wizards to capture Harry Potter and kill him, would you be interested in leading-?''

''Neka hvala.'' Zorka raised her hand and denied him. ''I fought in a war recently, I'm done with whatever nonsense you've planned.''

No one disobeyed Lord Voldemort's call to arms.

No one disobeyed the prodigy Tom Marvolo Riddle.

Montgomery Goldsmith narrowed his eyes. ''Nobody who wants to live says no to me, Zorka.''

''What's the worst that you can do? Kill me? Oh noo.'' Zorka pretended to wipe her tears. ''I'll go to my son. Make me insane? My husband and I will make quite a pair. My refusal does not negate my loyalty. It promotes my sanity.''

''Psh,'' Montgomery hissed. ''You're inssufferable.''

''You aren't the easiest guest to have either, my lord.''

''I should stay low, you say?''

''Dumbledore suspects nothing. And, even if he does, why should he send for you? Who should he send for you? Does he know of your life insurance?''

Montgomery nodded. ''He would be a fool not to.''

''Immortality is good.'' Zorka praised. ''You can live out your eternity as some obscure hermit soaking up knowledge from all across the world. Maybe in fifty years you'll actually learn lokativ.''

''Screw your cases, Zorka. They're maddening. You don't even use them properly.'' Voldemort was reminded of that time when he tried to learn Montenegrin and faltered at the slightest appearance of an obstacle.

''You don't have an ear for it. Besides, with you being immortal, there's no rush! Good, yes.''

''Immortality coupled with world domination is good.''

''Jebiga, Monty. You can't have everything.''

''I respect your counsel and wish to tell you that I've elected to ignore it.''

Zorka's lips curved in a warm smile. ''Oh?''

''Throughout the years I have spent mingling as Montgomery Goldsmith, from time to time I've looked up many of my ex-followers. Due to the current politics favouring muggles and muggleborns, many of them have installed rotary telephones.''

''Oh no.'' Zorka bit back screams as she grinned. ''No way. No, no, no.''

''I have naturally sought these telephone numbers out. In case I ever need to make my status as a living embodiment of an academia textbook known.''

Instead of biting her lips raw, Zorka bit on her clenched fist. ''Nooo.''

''Dire times have forced my hand, you see.''

''Please.'' Zorka begged, latching onto this distraction whilst trying not to think of her son and her husband. ''Call some, please.''

''Since you've refused me so boldly, I find myself at a loss of manpower.'' Montgomery Goldsmith placed a hand over his cold heart. ''Though, Lord Voldemort is in a forgiving nature today so he will invite you over to his home, offer you some tea since he is a British ponce at heart, and give you a list of telephone numbers you will dictate to him.''

''I accept Lord Voldemort's offer graciously.'' Zorka curtsied.

Montgomery stood, offered Zorka his arm, and apparated them both to his home.

* * *

For the first time since graduation, Hermione Granger didn't mind being apprenticed to Montgomery Goldsmith. Gilderoy Lockhart was too public anyway. Too mainstream.

Hermione wanted knowledge, not fame.

That was the key difference between her and Malfoy. The blond prick wanted both. Hermione was a down-to-earth witch and she knew it was better to know things than to appear to know things.

Whatever Lockhart was teaching Draco, Hermione wished him prosperity. Lesser than hers _of course_.

As she tugged along groceries to her mentor's home, she found that little to no snakes lingered. This was good because Hermione might actually bring Crookshanks with her. Her parents wrote and asked how she was while Hermione replied with titbits she was learning. New ways of understanding magic that none of the Hogwarts professors had even attempted to try.

Montgomery Goldsmith was everything Hermione longed for in a teacher. He was succinct. Precise. Not stuck up and arrogant like most professors in mentorship programs. No, he was a gem among rocks.

One time, Montgomery and Hermione were learning a charm that would enable the caster to pass through solid objects.

''Why would _anyone_ –''

''I figured the youth would think it would be wicked, honestly.'' They were in the living room and sitting together on the couch whilst flipping through books, analysing different theorems and versions of the same spell.

''Well,'' Hermione agreed, ''it is cool. But the price is much too steep for me to pay.''

The price was blood. Not the caster's, either.

''Listen, all you need to do is go to a blood bank and take out a bag of blood that's the same type as yours. You use said blood for the ritual, succeed, and then wait a few days to make the magic settle over your body until you don't feel it anymore. Then you go to the blood bank and give some blood.''

Montgomery Goldsmith knew how to make dark magic alluring to the youth even ones as morally inclined as Hermione Granger. Still, Hermione narrowed her eyes at the course of action to take because she didn't feel like simply robbing people in need of blood. ''All right, sir, but what happens to the person whose blood I used for a ritual?''

They die. Voldemort thought about saying the truth, but then gave it another whirl and said, ''Nothing that can be traced back to you.''

Hermione slowly took the book from his hands and decided to read the text more closely.

It was just theory, Hermione told herself. It was fun to learn about horrible things that she wouldn't ever inflict upon another person.

Voldemort hadn't the heart to tell Hermione that that was how Tom Riddle had started out.

Another time, Hermione recalled fondly, they were learning the mechanics of magical duelling that wasn't strictly by the book. It was a feat unto itself because Montgomery was without a wand. When asked, he'd explained he hadn't had a wand in over 17 years.

''Wands are a crutch,'' her mentor explained.

Hermione's goal was to reach and cast a spell on him. Montgomery and she were apart by a good twenty metres of trees. He was beneath a towering pine tree.

''You aren't going to fling spells at me?''

''If I feel like I need to, I will.''

Hermione rolled her eyes. She was Hermione Granger, brightest witch of her age. It wasn't nearly as hard to land a spell on a wizard as her mentor seemed to think. In their duelling club, she'd been among the better students.

Her wand flared with magic.

She stepped into the forest below blooming tree tops. Stray summer sunshine passed between dense leaves. The ground was littered with light and shade, giving a stained glass effect. Cicadas chirped.

Her mentor was giving her a chance, gauging her style of fight, and enjoying her attentive vigil of his movements.

Nothing was happening yet.

Hermione calmed herself and continued going forward in a straight line.

''You should keep an ear out on your surroundings.'' Goldsmith leaned against a pine. His arms were crossed, but he looked completely sure in his magical ability to best her. It was irritating. ''It's always important to understand that just because something doesn't _look_ like a weapon doesn't mean it can't be used as one.''

Hermione nodded. That was always a good kind of thinking to have.

''However, you also need to make sure that your opponent is at a disadvantage at all times.'' Montgomery spoke like a veteran, not the theorist Hermione had first thought. ''Pardon, sir, are you teaching me _warfare_?'' Hermione laughed, furrowing her brows together.

''You never know when a war might start because some idiot on cocaine decides to kill a political figure and send the entire country you're living in into disarray.'' Hermione almost asked about Montgomery Goldsmith's incredibly specific situation, but didn't, because logic reminded her not to open other people's wounds.

Yet it made her wonder about her mentor's practical knowledge of many dark spells, which he swore he only studied for theory. Hermione heard trees rustle and came back to the present. Montgomery idly watched her, enjoying the nature well for a man that was supposed to be on his guard.

Gryffindor boldness overcame Hermione and she decided to charge him. Casting a protego shield on herself, she waved her wand in a quick flick to send a difindo spell that broke off into smaller ones. It'd been another thing he'd taught her.

''The only spells you can't split are the unforgivables.'' Montgomery Goldsmith told her, certainty in his voice that Hermione would have feared if she didn't know the man was incapable of hurting her because of the contract they'd both signed upon entering the programme. ''Everything else is free game.''

The spell hit the pine, splintered off to the ground, jumped up from said ground and slid off Montgomery's casually put up shield. He'd only had to move a hand up.

''I take it this is your opening statement?'' Montgomery teased. Hermione scoffed at the scholarly joke.

''There's always room for improvement.'' Hermione parried like the badass nerd she was.

In the split second that Montgomery laughed and appeared to have let his guard down, Hermione found herself casting again. This time not with difindo, but with incendio. A turret of perfectly legal bout of arson shot out from the tip of her vine wood wand.

Montgomery moved out of the way quickly, gracelessly. Hermione giggled at him in victory.

The pine tree caught fire.

Hermione stopped and just kind of realised that, in her pursuit of victory, she'd forgotten they were duelling in a very flammable forest. Just as she thought to cast aguamenti and put it out, Montgomery made his first move. He stomped onto the ground, and while Hermione tried figuring out the spell, tree roots shot out from underneath her.

''Fuck,'' Hermione cursed. Montgomery Goldsmith, American extraordinaire that did not at all grow up in London during the 1940s, didn't berate her.

Hermione, for the sake of the forest more than to prove a point at this point, channelled her magic from her form and into her feet, so when she kicked at the roots, they were pushed back. It was another thing he'd taught her.

They were in Perast, a fisherman's village that had a beautiful Illyrian vibe. It wasn't far from Kotor, which was always good; when apparating, the bigger the distance, the more exhausting the trip back.

Two islands were in vicinity as Montgomery and Hermione stood close by the sea. Zorka pestered them into visiting the artificially made one. Our Lady of the Rocks was the tourist name; it was actually called Gospa od Škrpjela, but given how English speakers liked to sound sophisticated, they don't tolerate tongue twisters. Zorka called Montgomery weak and Hermione could relate.

'' _Intent_ ,'' Montgomery Goldsmith said over Zorka's booing, ''is magic. Without it, you can't do anything. Obviously, there are words and motions without which casting some spells is impossible.''

''Like the killing curse,'' Zorka offered.

Montgomery nodded. '’Yes, like the killing curse.''

Hermione, upon reflection, found that her mentor thought about unforgivable curses a lot for someone studying potions and herbology. The only publications Hermione managed to dig up from her mentor was one written for a scientific magazine in Hong Kong. The paper had been written in Latin and detailed the many uses of snake venom in healing potions. It'd been revolutionary enough to garner him an offer to be a mentor in the exclusive programme Hermione had signed up for.

Montgomery Goldsmith conjured paper boats and levitated them down into the sea. Zorka was conducting the water with her finger, into making swirls without actually touching the sea. A small maelstrom created itself and sucked in Montgomery's creations. Hermione watched diligently and asked if he could teach her how to do magic wandlessly. With a small smile, he said he could.

So Hermione learned the basics of wandless magic, but was told for duelling to still keep a wand.

''There's an art in duelling with a wand,'' Montgomery said wistfully, smiling. Hermione wondered if his will to tear himself from the crutch a wand could best his desire to both hone the duelling art and his apparent showmanship.

Hermione returned to the present as Montgomery jumped back, the roots now redirected towards her. She surged behind his oak and flung her wand to cast aguamenti. Water from her wand doused the fire. She redirected her wand towards him without cancelling her spell.

In a graceful, inventive motion, he pivoted as if trying to apparate. The water moved around him and splashed into Hermione. Her hair clung onto her wet clothes and she was thankful for the summer scorch.

Embarrassment coated her visage. The wand in her grasp produced irritated sparks.

To have her move again, Montgomery slowly moved his hand from the ground and flung dirt at her, which she repelled with a blitz-quick protego shield. He tapped a tree and had it throw up its roots to wrap around Hermione's feet.

She jumped over them, but a gust of conjured wind had her fall down. Montgomery still hadn't moved from his trees.

Hermione groaned. She struggled against the roots that now wrapped around her. Montgomery walked through grass and, upon getting close to Hermione, simply took her wand. He inspected it with a bored expression and flicked it, causing the vines to retreat. With his free arm, he helped Hermione up.

''When it comes to winning, you needn't a wand. Only your own magic and a will to succeed.''

''And practise,'' Hermione said, dusting herself off and pretending not to be ashamed. Failure always hit overachievers hardest.

Montgomery cracked a smile. ''I thought that was implied.''

Hermione scoffed a laugh and asked him where she'd gone wrong. Her mentor elaborated with great pleasure. The walk felt good. It stopped being good when they spotted Zorka, **_cross_**.

Zorka was unamused and told them to keep their arson to their own countries' borders. She berated Montgomery, figuring that Hermione would never do such a thing. At least she was conscious of the environment, Zorka ranted. Montgomery put his hands in his pockets and listened. Hermione just waited to have Zorka's wrath redirected on her, but the moment of revelation never came.

''It's called Montenegro because of the black forests adorning our hills and mountains!'' she shouted.

They apologised.

''It simply got away from me,'' Montgomery admitted. It was a lie. Hermione didn't out him on it, finding solidarity in her English speaking teacher.

Zorka heaved a sigh and went to where they'd battled, priming her magic to restore the flora.

''My apologies, Zorka.'' He called out to the peeved witch. She said some explicit things in Montenegrin and disappeared into the forest.

''Thanks.'' Hermione said.

''Oh, _please_.'' He answered.

The poshness kind of reminded her of Abraxas' exasperated drawls during Malfoy galas. They usually had her over during the gala dinners to help promote their complete trust in the new pro-equality rhetoric the ministry propagated. At first, Hermione arrived there just to have good fun, but Abraxas introduced her to _people_. He networked _for_ her. Hermione hadn't expected that sort of treatment at all.

Draco was roped into host duty by his parents to teach him aristocratic values, so Hermione didn't feel bad about talking to much more interesting people than the person who'd invited her. She met the Minister (rather oblivious man, really), Amelia Bones (who she wished to hear everything she had to say on any and all matters no matter their triviality), and, well, Hermione couldn't even **fathom** the honour, but _Bathilda Bagshot_ , the authoress of her favourite book in the entire universe.

''Hermione's going to be a great witch, just you wait.'' Abraxas lauded Hermione just after she finished her OWLs, having gotten the best record Hogwarts had.

''I'm happy she broke that man's record,'' Amelia Bones didn't namedrop, but having been the same generation as Abraxas they were both aware of whom she spoke.

''Whose?'' Hermione asked.

''Tom Riddle's.'' Abraxas spoke the name easily.

''Oh, I've heard of him. He did something for the school and got plaque in the trophy room. Did you know him, Mr. Abraxas?''

Lucius and Narcissa slowly broke from the Greengrass family to intercept this conversation. Hermione didn't know why, but the way Lucius looked terrified of his father talking about Tom Riddle made for a comedic sight.

''He was a dear friend of mine,'' Abraxas said. Amelia Bones snorted. Minister Fudge left the vicinity by saying he had to go greet an old flame. ' _'Dolores_!''

''Oh, what happened to him?'' Hermione asked.

Bathilda Bagshot, ancient, then found her voice and decided to speak on behalf of a torn-up Abraxas. ''He died, dear.'' the frail woman said. ''Death suited that one better than imprisonment. My great nephew still writes to me, you know, Abraxas. I reply, of course.'' As all nattering old women did, Bathilda went off tangent and spoke about her day-to-day activities. ''It's quite rude not to reply to family's letters. Gellert told me I should go out and have some fun. Just because he's imprisoned doesn't mean I should act as such, as well.'' Then, softly, ''Thank you for inviting me.''

''Oh, _please_!'' Abraxas Malfoy said, waving his hand in a flippant gesture that said 'you're welcome' and 'don't mention it' at the same time.

Lucius and Narcissa were quite shocked because they didn't know whether to be happy that Abraxas hadn't started a monologue about his love for a Dark Lord or the fact that another Dark Lord had become the main topic in their home. Draco was still by the door and glaring at Hermione for having fun.

''Your father, Hyperion Malfoy, hosted my Gellert.'' Bathilda Bagshot noted to Abraxas, ''It was a quaint party. Much less ostentatious than any of yours. Hyperion had taste, dear boy.'' She patted Abraxas' cheek gently with a withered hand and dropped it to the side. ''There's something about Malfoys sniffing out power that's uncannily fairy-like about you all. First there was the passionate pureblood,'' the old witch looked pained and no party present wished to interrupt her, giving her age precedent, ''then, of course, your horrific half-blood.'' Bathilda glanced over at Hermione. ''I do hope I live to see what a muggleborn backed by pureblood influence can accomplish.''

Hermione didn't know how to feel about the fact that she'd just been compared to Gellert Grindelwald and who she assumed was You-Know-Who by her favourite author in the entire universe.

Amelia Bones patted Hermione on the back and said. ''You're a fine witch, Hermione. Don't be startled by old witches and wizards. Their minds aren't nearly as functional as they used to be.''

Hermione nodded.

''After you finish school, be sure to stop by in the Ministry. We can use a level-headed girl like you.''

''Thank you, Madam Bones.''

* * *

Montgomery woke up Hermione and instructed her to go away for a bit. ''Pick me some algae.''

''Really?'' Hermione asked. His attempts at getting her out of their home were becoming more and more obvious.

''Yes.''

''All right.''

''Good. Thank you.''

So Hermione went to pick algae.

* * *

Zorka and Lord Voldemort were carefully picking their victim. The witch lounged by a pink rotary phone as the wizard flipped through a small notebook of numbers. He handed her it and told her to read the names.

''Malfoy?''

**_''No.''_ **

''Nott?''

''Not my inner circle. Give me someone on the edge that fears me. I work best with fear.''

''I was around eighteen when you were last at power. Like I know who was in your circle.''

''Read the list, Zorka.''

''Yaxley?''

''Seems they say third time's the charm for a reason.''

Zorka handed him the rotary phone, warning him of the costly calls abroad. ''Roaming and what not.''

Montgomery dialled the phone and tried channelling Lord Voldemort as much as he could. It had been a very long time since he'd spoken as him.

'' _Ja?''_

Ah! He got an answer on the first dial, splendid! Montgomery coughed away from the telephone and used his scary 1970s voice. ''Mein lieber Freund, you recall perhaps swearing fealty to me when you were drunk off of your arse back in 1976?''

Zorka's eyes widened and Voldemort turned away from her lest she break his concentration.

'' _Who is this?''_

''Hate to spell things out to you over the telephone. It works much better if I have you here to show you my anagram in person''

'' _M-my lord?''_

''Noow you remember me. _Wonderful_. Please do not take notes, I will be brief. You see, I need you to have an accident happen to an auror in England.''

'' _Potter?''_

''Good. So it is public knowledge that the infant has grown into a mindless whelp.'' Zorka let out a screech she silenced by casting a charm on herself. Though that didn't stop her from silently laughing and giving him thumbs up.

'' _Yes, my lord.''_

''No need for the formalities, please. I am retired. This is just me cutting loose ties. Getting all of my affairs in order, as they say.''

'' _Are you dying?''_

''You would want that wouldn't you, you little swine?'' Montgomery concentrated on his power and heard the man over the phone bellow in pain and beg him to stop. ''What do you want me to stop?''

'' _The mark burns!''_

''Oh, _does it_ now?'' A smirk stretched across his face as he held the telephone head to his ear, embedding it just to hear the traitorous wizard quiver. ''You moved to Germany and sent all of your children to Durmstrang in fear of my return. Most wise, I would say. If I were in your position, I would have done the same. Though for you to completely cut yourself off from the magical world – the world we wished to create – now that _surprises_ me.''

'' _My lord_ **_please_**!'' Raw pain escaped his lips and entered Montgomery's pleased ears. He looked back to Zorka who stopped laughing, but smiled reassuringly at him. It was welcome, but unnecessary.

''I cannot believe you.'' Montgomery laughed a light laugh full of mirth (he had missed this oh-so-terribly). ''You have a telephone installed! What else do you have? Have you a microwave?''

When the man over the other line crumbled into a sobbing mess, Montgomery eased on the torture. Heavy breathing came in shallow intervals and the Dark Lord hissed in a low voice, ''I will not be forgotten, Yaxley. _Pure_ , **luminous _sacred twenty-eight_**.''

'' _F-f-forgive m-me, m-my lord.''_

''Of course, Yaxley, my _loyal_ follower.'' Crimson eyes glowed. ''Have you any other requests?''

'' _Leave my family out of this, please. I'll do whatever you wish, my lord. Honest. Anything and everything, but please, my children…please.''_

Voldemort turned the phone to Zorka so she could hear him begging. Her smile dropped and she mimed for him to end the conversation soon. Satisfied, he took it back to his ear and asked, ''How old are your children?''

'' _My son is eighteen, my lord. And my daughters are twenty and twenty-two.''_

''Hm,'' he tapped his chin and thought, performing more than being, ''weren't you around eighteen when you took the mark?''

The sound that came out of that poor man would hold Montgomery's happiness up for days. He was just about to continue the lovely conversation when his pupil opened the door.

''We _will_ talk later, Yaxley.'' Montgomery hung up, not waiting to hear the man ramble on.

* * *

Meanwhile, carrying algae in her bag, Hermione reached the cabin, having decided to walk as a workout. The sun above was amiable to her as it wasn't too hot for once.

A bird cawed as it flew towards Hermione. It was an eagle and Hermione wondered if it was post for her American professor, but as the bird neared, the witch recognized it as Viktor Krum's. They'd kept in touch since fourth year after Cedric Diggory won the tournament. Her mother had told her that, until she came of age, she was not to go to Bulgaria and visit him, but _really now_. Montenegro _was_ close to Bulgaria.

If this was an invitation, she was sure to accept it.

She set down the groceries on the porch of the cabin and snatched the envelope from the eagle. Hermione kindly cooed at the bird and gave it some treats she always kept on her person in case of mail.

Inside the letter were three tickets to the 1998 Quidditch World Cup. For Hermione and her parents, no doubt. Hermione's heart fluttered at the consideration Viktor had towards her family. She nearly swooned. Though, Hermione Granger didn't swoon. She was 100% logical. Emotions other than rage and happiness didn't exist.

She did, to be fair, smile like a goof the entire time she read the letter.

The letter of intrigue mostly consisted of Viktor Krum flattering Hermione, inviting her to watch him play, and then, if she would have him, he would like for them to get in touch more often. He understood that she was busy with her apprenticeship, but if she could find some time to visit, he would like that.

The first thing Hermione Granger noticed in the letter wasn't the fact that she had _the_ Viktor Krum crushing on her still, but that his English had improved immensely.

''I'll fire-call him,'' Hermione said to the eagle and watched it fly off. To write to him now would be foolish as she had no idea if her mentor would allow her time off. Most academics didn't like sports.

Opening the door, Hermione saw Montgomery slamming down a rotary phone and Zorka laughing at his abruptness.

Without even being told what she was up to, Hermione launched her pitch. ''My parents don't like quidditch at all and I have three tickets. Do any of you want to go to the Quidditch World Cup?'' Hermione raised the tickets and smiled like a love struck girl. Then the expression fell into the sharp lines Montgomery valued and wished to sharpen more with knowledge. ''If it's all right with you, sir. It's during my apprenticeship and we don't have to be there the entire time. Maybe just for the first few matches.''

_Or how long Krum plays. Oh, but what if his team manages to go to the finals and I can't be there? It would be rather stupid of me… Just keep eye contact, Hermione, he might yield. Or pity you. Come on, Mr. Goldsmith._

''I'd like to go,'' Zorka said and, without consulting her acquaintance, added, ''So would Monty.''

Hermione Granger looked at him like idiots did.

''Sure.'' _Yes, Hermione! Yes! You'll get to see Viktor!_ ''Yeah. I like sports.''

Montgomery Goldsmith had never cared for any sport in his entire life. But he knew Harry Potter did. Yaxley's promise would come into use sooner than the man was capable of handling. He smiled. His pupil thought he was smiling because of her enthusiasm.

''Thank you for the free tickets, Hermione.''


	6. Sport is bad

The days leading up to the Quidditch World Cup were educational. Montgomery Goldsmith had had the time to _finally_ gauge Hermione Granger's magical prowess. Before, they'd only speculated theory and learnt cautionary tales (that Montgomery dared not say were as personal as they were), but he could see the witch grew more and more restless. Whether it was because of her quidditch beau or her indescribable thirst for practical use of magic remained a mystery.

She caught him off guard while he was in the kitchen spelling an oven to turn off in exactly half an hour since putting in his next culinary masterpiece. Montgomery had figured that, with an apprentice, he'd also get some domestic benefits out of Hermione. Alas, she was as useless as an aristocratic pureblood in that regard.

''Sir!''

He didn't startle, per se, because Lord Voldemort did not startle at anything, but he did whip his head around to face her far too quickly for his liking. ''Yess?''

She propped open a book from his personal library that contained many dark spells, but carefully chosen as not to terrify the girl into calling the authorities on him. The page she turned to had a moving illustration that depicted two people garbed in flowers and pagan vestments - Polish in origin, if Montgomery could remember his research - that, after a brief glow of the spell, donned Christian attire and wore crosses around their necks.

''That is the Theophilius' hex of enlightenment.'' Montgomery did not have to check. He knew that spell _well_. It surprised him to see that his pupil had gone so deep in his library to fetch the book. He'd told her to read about wards, but she'd read through the books quicker than Montgomery had expected. So he had allowed her free reign.

''How is this spell still legal!?'' Hermione shouted at him, outraged. Montgomery could not swallow down her empathy, honestly. It surprised him more each passing day. ''It is no different than the imperius curse!''

''It is very different.'' Montgomery took the book from her hands. ''This one is legal while the imperius curse is not. Besides, this spell hasn't been used in _ages_. Few people know of its existence, and even fewer remember it being legal.''

The look Hermione cast him gave Montgomery the impression that she would remember it and, when given the power to, would outlaw it the first moment she could.

A smile danced on his lips as he said, ''If you tell me the difference between the Theophilius hex and the imperius curse, I'll teach you fiendfyre.'' That, Montgomery knew, Hermione would actually need to practise for days, perhaps even weeks. It would sate her need for spell work and they could go back to theory.

Her eyes glinted with joy at the prospect. ''Really, sir? You know how to do it?''

Montgomery scoffed then. ''Of course I know it, apprentice-mine. I learnt it when I was around your age. Perhaps a year or two older. But I am certain an eighteen year old can learn it as long as she is taught by an excellent professor.''

''Well,'' Hermione gave a toothy smirk, ''I should hope you are up to the task, sir.''

''Answer the question, Miss Granger, else you earn nothing.'' Montgomery said, more joking than peeved.

She launched into her findings like a textbook lawyer defending their case. ''The hex was first created to make pagans believe in God and take up Christianity.'' At Montgomery's nod and quiet glance over to the oven, his apprentice took the opportunity to relax her tense shoulders. Being bent over and reading did not do one a healthy service. ''Saints Cyril and Methodius sought to convert many Slavic people to their cause. They also wished to better their literacy, so they created the Glagolitic alphabet. However, there were some people who did not want to follow in their stead.''

Montgomery made a prompting noise in the back of his throat as he bent down in the kitchen to watch over the oven. ''I apologise for interrupting, but do you want some fish fillet? I had a craving and I did not think to consult you.''

Hermione stopped, blinked, and said that she didn't have a problem with eating fish before resuming. ''So, Cyril and Methodius created the Theophilius hex that reprogrammed,'' Montgomery raised his brows at the word in question, but did not stop his pupil from her test, ''people's minds. So, in its core, it is the same as the imperius curse.''

''I did not ask for their similarities.'' Montgomery said. When the oven turned off by itself, he levitated the platter wandlessly onto the table. ''Do keep your answers concise. I know you read everything about the topic.''

She blushed at the criticism, but it did not deter her. ''The imperius curse can make the cursed do anything. The Theophilius hex, however, is solely based on converting people into believing in the Christian monotheistic God. Both are mind spells, but the imperius curse demands a constant flow of the caster's concentration, whereas when you cast the hex once, you do not have to keep pouring your energy into it.''

''Bravo, Miss Granger. I'm satisfied.'' Montgomery delighted in the way her expression beamed at him. With delicate movements, Montgomery moved his hands to conduct the chinaware from his hanging cabinets. Hermione watched him with awe and keen respect that was simply because he did all of this wandlessly.

''Sir, is it too late to learn to master wandless magic? I know you've been teaching me, but everything I do feels so crude.''

''Of course not.'' He even allowed himself an eye roll. ''Any form of magic can be done and learned. Only brittle fools that cannot make up their minds find limitations in everything they do.''

Finishing with his task and lesson, Montgomery eased into a chair and helped himself to the fish fillets. Hermione ate the first few bites in silence until she asked him about the fiendfyre lessons. ''Sir, when were you thinking we should start? I find that our surroundings are unsafe for such a task at hand.'' They did live far up in the forest, which was true. ''Also, sir, regarding the Theophilius hex we just spoke about, is it possible to make someone do something they normally wouldn't want to, but under the guise of a divine order? If it creates absolute Christians out of those having the hex cast on them, wouldn't something like, 'Marry me, God commands you to!' work?''

''I wouldn't know.'' Montgomery lied and took another bite of the fillet to stop the girl from continuing on. When she asked him another question, he fixed her with a stern glare and gestured the food on his plate.

''Sorry, sir. Have a pleasant meal.'' Hermione said and quietly went back eating.

A steady flow of questions rang inside her mind. Usually, Montgomery Goldsmith could tune them out because he was a skilled legilimens and occlumens, but they practically attacked him, urging him to finish his meal, to answer her questions, to begin her lessons on fiendfyre.

Voldemort remembered killing similarly loud minds.

Hers seemed a waste to be rid of.

''Before I teach you Fiendfyre, I think I should first teach you mind magic.''

''Like the imperius curse?'' the glee surprised him.

 _''No_ , like occlumency,'' he corrected. It was best to be on guard. If someone delved into her mind while they were among such a crowd, Voldemort didn't want her to be the reason someone found him out. ''If you consent to it, I'll take a simple stroll through your mind until you learn to throw me out.'' Not that she could throw him out, if he was being serious. He planned to go easy on her for the first few lessons.

''All right, sir.''

''You can stop calling me sir, if you like.'' He said, not wanting to tell her that he very much preferred being called _my lord_ instead _._

''Thank you, but I feel more comfortable this way.''

They moved to the living room after their meal, leaving the mess for another day's job. Hermione offered to clean up, but Montgomery simply waved her off like one waved off a tedious house elf. ''I'll do it much quickly later. No need to concern yourself with this. If I need something done, I'll send you off on an errand.'' He detested those and valued the apprentice to do them for him.

She sat comfortably on a sofa as per his instructions. ''Is it wise to do this right after a meal?''

''You may feel mild discomfort, but nothing so serious that might make you throw up,'' Montgomery assured. ''Only amateurs are so clumsy.''

Hermione nodded, adjusted herself so her feet were firmly planted on the ground and her back straight. She said that she was ready.

How Voldemort conducted himself with this lesson was important to decide immediately. Obviously, he couldn't push her too much. She might retaliate and scour his mind. There was no doubt that, if that were the case, she could stumble upon something sensitive. It was would be risky to obliviate her. Not that he even could. Gilderoy Lockhart had oblivation down to science. Voldemort didn't like admitting lacking in any branch of magic, but that he had to hand to the charlatan.

Slowly, he whispered ''Legilimens,'' as not to spook the nervous girl in his care. Coupled with eye contact she did not flinch away from (which in itself was a miracle, because red eyes were something of a terrifying trait) formed a perfect combination to slide into her mind seamlessly.

When he had been teaching Lucius and Severus, he remembered telling them right before casting the spell that they shouldn't think about anything they didn't want him knowing, knowing that would be exactly the first thing they would think about. Ye Gods, Voldemort recalled, Severus had thought about a redhead whose name should not be uttered far too much for it to be healthy. Lucius was rather boring and concerned himself mostly with how to get rid of the peacocks without getting scorned by Abraxas?

Hermione's thoughts were as organised as her life.

The very first thing he saw was her worst memory. The youth was the same; their thoughts almost always put into the forefront the worst and most incriminating.

There was a small jar with holes poked into the top. The mirror in the room showed a small Hermione Granger, dressed properly in her Gryffindor attire, waving her vine wood wand around. She smiled. It was a rather vindictive smile, if Montgomery could freely say. Inside the jar buzzed a beetle.

''Well, Rita, I really wish you hadn't forced my hand.'' Her brown eyes glinted and the beetle buzzed, more in fear than in anger. ''Until you give me a satisfying answer, I have no other choice but to leave you in here to think about your actions.'' The beetle buzzed and somehow it sounded like a condescending laugh. It appeared that Hermione thought along the same lines. ''Dear Miss Skeeter, I do hope you laugh the same way when faced with aurors and Azkaban. Nobody likes an _unregistered_ animagus.''

Montgomery Goldsmith did not have all the facts, but what he saw warmed his heart with pride. No wonder the girl was brilliant for conversation and not the least bit judgemental. Sure, the empathy was odd and hard to stomach at times, but nobody was perfect.

A sudden stab of pain made Voldemort look around the memory. He saw a dolled up Hermione Granger wearing a periwinkle dress. She had stabbed him with her wand.

Hermione's mind had finally realised that something was wrong.

Some people didn't have to learn occlumency if their mind could defend them. If Voldemort wasn't skilled and already experienced the defence Hermione's subconscious was forming, it would have scared him off.

He grasped at the new Hermione and pushed her off of him, flinging himself into the memory she escaped from in the process.

There was crying. There was laughter. And, to top it all off, there was a ghost of a girl he'd killed when he was sixteen.

''There, there,'' Myrtle soothed Hermione in a false, ironic voice. It was wispy and light and just as annoying as it was fifty years ago. If Tom Riddle could choose to go back to his fifth year, to OWLs and Hogwarts, to the feeling of home and safety from war, to his Abraxas, he would elect not to only because of that annoying slip of a girl. She'd followed him around everywhere because of a horrid crush. ''People can be cruel.''

At that Hermione's head lifted to get a better look at her. ''Ron ruined everything!''

This was gossip Montgomery had no business listening in on, but some things were beyond his control so he hankered down and waited out until the memory ended by itself.

''Viktor was so nice to me and Ron had to ruin everything!'' Hermione drew a retching cry out of her lungs that pierced the air and caused Myrtle to cluck her tongue in sympathy. ''I'm so embarrassed, Myrtle.'' She sniffled. ''I won't be able to show my face in public after tonight.''

Teenage girls were just as dramatic in the present as they were in Tom Riddle's time at Hogwarts. Except Walburga Black, who would not have sulked but would find ways of ruining her enemy publically.

''You should hurt him.'' Myrtle had a wicked glint hiding behind her glasses.

''How?'' Hermione's voice steeled.

''You're a witch and you aren't dead,'' Myrtle said vaguely. ''You figure it out.''

Hermione's mind tumbled the memories around to throw Voldemort off his track, but the man was not having it. He had come here to measure his apprentice's power at occlumency, but elected to stay for the teenage drama. His life was very boring.

A Weasley (it had to be a Weasley because anything that moved and had red hair was a Weasley) gasped at the sight of Hermione and, halfway into his apology, had to duck away from a sea of small, angry birds that his genius apprentice had conjured out of sheer spite.

Giddily – as weird as that was for Montgomery to say about himself – he sought to find more memories that showcased Hermione's magical dominance. Voldemort jumped past an angry looking Hermione dressed in first year robes that had cast a spell to get him out and moved into a random memory that oozed fondness.

Montgomery just hoped he didn't end up in some romantic memory, because those were horrendously awkward. However, no, it was something much worse.

Abraxas Malfoy regarded Hermione and Tom Riddle found himself sucking in a breath of trepidation at seeing his lover after almost twenty years. In the memory, he had donned a satin robe with ungodly patterns that no self-respecting man ought to mix. Stripes, vertical and horizontal; spots, large and small; moving patterns of peacocks. All while hiding a good portion of his face with a large hat with peacock feathers as decoration.

''You must be Hermione Granger!'' Abraxas Malfoy outstretched his hand to her, even though purebloods were usually above such a gesture, especially to those of weak blood. ''I am Abraxas Malfoy. The one that actually owns all of this.'' Abraxas gestured to the whole estate with his hand and Hermione nodded her head, causing the wizard to grin a pearly, crooked smile. ''Oh, Draco, you did not tell me that she was adorable! I approve of her!''

Draco, a smaller, more Walburga Black-ish Malfoy, sputtered.

Hermione Granger was mortified.

''Thank you for having me, sir.'' She tried to assuage the situation and take back some control. Voldemort laughed at her poor attempt. When Abraxas held the ball in his court, it stayed there until he allowed it to move.

''Please, dear girl, call me Abraxas!'' He amiably said and cut off whatever she planned on saying. Hermione did not like that at all. By the cocked head and the shaking shoulders Abraxas let show, Voldemort knew that he found the entire ordeal hilarious.

''Draco's invited me over because he knows that he better make friends with those magically stronger than him," Hermione said. ''I know that this is a hard thing for you purebloods to stomach, having your heir weaker than me.''

At that, Malfoy the youngest slumped in defeat and left Abraxas and Hermione to their banter. Smart boy. He didn't get that from his Malfoy side. Narcissa was a bright, sharp girl.

Voldemort tried to direct Hermione's memory to see what was happening, but found Hermione's attention focused only on Abraxas. Did this girl have such a one track mind about things?

The tension in Hermione's form and memory did not go unnoticed. A Gryffindor girl running her tongue in the presence of someone as powerful and untouchable as Abraxas Malfoy. Without him, nothing would have gotten done. Abraxas had been the one to fund his exploits. Abraxas had been the one that first told him he could be great. Abraxas had been the one that told him that teaching didn't suit him when it clearly did, but Albus Dumbledore was a blind twat that couldn't see farther than his own lover's carnage and chaos.

Hell, Voldemort inhaled sharply, Abraxas had been the one that first suggested they start the war.

''Hermione Granger,'' Abraxas said and Hermione straightened up to her full height at being addressed so officially, expecting a rebuke or a scowl of some kind for her irreverent comment. ''You are a bold child that I do not doubt will become someone worth knowing and bribing.''

''I cannot be bribed.''

''Please, _child_ , you're being bribed right now. Do you think anyone is really friends with anyone without any underlying conditions?'' Hermione was wise enough not to answer. Abraxas knew that the admission pained her.

''I understand your point. If there is no love involved-''

''Love is just another stage, higher, more potent.'' Abraxas shrugged and Voldemort very much tried to see the other's face at that moment, but he had hidden it well and Hermione had been too busy hearing his words to look. She vividly recalled his clothes and held as little fondness for his ostentatious styling as Voldemort did.

''You're saying nobody loves one another?''

''I thought you were _smart_.'' Abraxas laughed and enjoyed the teen girl's charged fury. She was like a forest fire waiting to happen. ''Of course there's love and friendship and all that nonsense! However, you always expect something in return. Out of the goodness of their heart, HA! You'll have to help them out in some shape or form later on, won't you? You’ll have to be useful to be loved, and the sooner you accept this, the sooner you will become…'' A pause, then, to think of where this conversation was headed, ‘’…I suppose you’ll become calmer and less expectant of the impossible.’’

Voldemort wished to know why Hermione had this conversation as one of her go-to memories. It agitated him in a way it hadn't in a while, to see and hear Abraxas Malfoy. Guilt he could not feel, that was a weak emotion, as was love (love brought nothing but anguish) – but when the other flaunted his arms in the air and his sleeves slid down to reveal large, round indents in skin only late-stage Dragon Pox could leave – well, he forced himself not to look away. He owed Abraxas this little.

''Really now, Hermione, when you accept that, you can't get hurt!''

''You're _wrong_.'' Hermione said decisively, like teenagers only could.

''And _you're_ young.'' Abraxas shot back cruelly, shattering his good natured façade to reveal a creature in pain, caged and suffering. Not a proud, flying peacock that flaunted its feathers, but a withering old thing waiting out its last days.

''Doesn't mean you aren't wrong.'' Hermione had said, even with the terrible magic shifting from the aged wizard towards her. She had stood firmly and spoken her piece. It was obvious that Minerva McGonagall had influenced this one, thought Voldemort cynically.

Instead of sneering at Hermione, like she seemed to expect, Abraxas had tipped his head back and laughed a high-pitched screech, not dissimilar to the peacocks he kept as familiars. The sun hit the aristocrat's revealed face, and that was when Tom Riddle pulled out of Hermione's mind impulsively.

His pupil lay sprawled out on the couch and panted heavily. Montgomery glanced at a clock to see how much time had transpired in the small infinity he felt in the last memory and saw that it had been barely two minutes since the whole process began.

Heaving a sigh, he sat down next to his pupil, not wanting to show her how much the past had shaken him. He calmed his nerves and breathed and pulled up shields in his mind that steadied him. This helped. If he could visualise what was threatening to topple his mind into disarray, it was worth shutting it far away in the recess of his mind. This had become a habit he ought to break, but hadn’t enough mental fortitude to clean out his mind.

''Are you all right?'' Montgomery asked Hermione, who gave him a weak smile and a nod.

''I think I could go again.'' She told him and he almost sneered _Lucky you, I can't._

''Ten minute break.'' Montgomery strictly ordered. ''To gather your thoughts and tell me what you could be doing to minimize my reach.''

* * *

Abraxas Malfoy was a pedant wizard. This meant that, given his disfigurement and magical background, he had elected to practise illusionary magic. Disillusionment spells were a popular choice, if one was a complete idiot. The cast could easily be broken and Abraxas Malfoy was not about to have his disguise fail whilst in public. The tricky part was realising what spell couldn't be sensed by another skilled party. Trickier was to accept that nothing could work full time.

Polyjuice was out of the question because he was sick, not painted on to look ill.

Disillusionment could be easily finited.

Many other spells had taboos on them that, were it not for the Ministry's watchful eye of his and his family's activity, Abraxas Malfoy would have tried. What was a few dead muggles drained of their blood? Though, as Bathory had written, that was for youth. Not _health_.

A few years of hardship followed.

Then 1988 came, when Abraxas Malfoy visited Gringotts, converted some galleons into pounds, and went to muggle London for a whole day, worrying his family in the process. He came back looking like he had before he'd taken ill. There was no spell cast on him, and the man looked positively glowing with joy.

''Oh, Merlin, he actually killed some muggles for a beauty enchantment.'' Lucius feared what the Ministry would do upon hearing this.

Narcissa blinked. She was never a woman of many words, but the words she uttered held great weight. ''Is that eyeliner?''

''Well, for the money I gave the cosmetic workers, I sure hope they put everything they could on me. Lovely girls, them. Taught me how to apply the makeup myself. Went shopping with me, as well!'' Later he would say that had been unbusinesslike of them.

So, that had been that.

Or so the Malfoy family thought.

Whenever Lucius would hold some important meeting, it would just so happen that Abraxas Malfoy always stuck out from the picture perfect family. One woman had screamed at the sight of him and spent the entire evening pretending his father did not exist, which was hard, because the elder kept asking her things and drawing her focus on him. However, when Narcissa had some friends over, Abraxas would either be away or presentable.

Upon being questioned, he had replied, ''Narcissa deserves respect for deciding to marry into this chaotic family and I shall not cause her any grief. I leave that to you, son.''

When Draco had brought along friends for the first time, they had seen his grandfather and flinched. Many scattered. Few remained. That few he had stuck with all throughout his Hogwarts education. ''Why do you do that?'' Draco had asked him and Abraxas remembered telling him that it helped him have control. He chose when and how he looked like, not some ailment.

Though, for Draco's birthday, he did clean up.

And he would certainly be presentable (if not irresistible!) for the Quidditch World Cup. Nothing would ruin this for him. Not the constant ache of his bones or the pain ripping him apart from the inside. The healer Narcissa paid had even cast on him some potent spells to help ease his suffering, but it hadn't been enough.

Draco had gotten ready in record time, but Narcissa and Lucius were still lagging behind.

''Must we be late because of you two?'' Abraxas shouted. He placed a hand to his hip and waited for Lucius and Narcissa to get their bearings. Draco stood by his side, still put off by Hermione's refusal to go with them all. They waited in the drawing room for Narcissa to triple check everything and Lucius to get the peacocks to behave.

''You,'' Abraxas pushed Draco lightly, ''stop that. Hermione will be there because of her boyfriend and not you, but you will still get to see your best friend. She has probably cooled from your fight.'’

Draco dejectedly nodded.

''I bet Bulgaria is going to lose so badly.'' Abraxas chuckled when a smile tugged at his grandson's lips. ''Who are you rooting for?''

''Us.''

''Oh, sweet boy, patriotism is nice, but completely unnecessary in sport. You root for the victor.'' Abraxas taught, then hissed in pain. His healer had told him that their spells ought to hold him over for the remaining week, but the ill wizard felt it already dwindling in power.

''I root for my favourite team because sport is about having _fun_.''

''Well, word from the grapevine says that my favourite team this year shall be Malawi.'' Abraxas took out his wand from his inner coat pocket. ''Because _winning_ is fun.''

''Yet you were on the wrong side of the war.'' Draco said, mean-spirited and already ready to clash words with anyone that didn't agree with his quidditch opinions. Ah yes, Abraxas smiled, sport was such a beautiful phenomenon.

''No, your father was ignorant enough to get himself tagged. I helped the war, but no one can prosecute me because of lack of evidence.'' Abraxas elaborated and flicked his wand like the healer had done. A shroud of comfort enveloped him. Well, Abraxas thought, self-medicating isn't the worst thing I've done to myself. He added another one just to be safe.

''Sometimes you're very easy to fear, grandfather.''

Abraxas drew Draco in a hug and told him to hush. Seconds ticked by until Abraxas couldn't wait anymore and decided to abscond with Draco. ''Narcissa, dearest flower, we're leaving! Meet you at the portkey position!'' He didn't wait for them to reply before apparating with his grandson.

The sight greeting them at the portkey destination was not one Draco was comfortable seeing. Minerva McGonagall chatted up Theodore Nott, Blaise Zabini, and Pansy Parkinson, asking them how they were doing as graduates.

Theodore gave a harrowing laugh. Blaise said that he was travelling. Pansy, on the other hand, jumped into a verbal presentation how her company was prospering, as well as her and Millie’s relationship.

''I am happy to hear that, Miss Parkinson.'' Minerva added, "Chin up, lad," to Theodore as an afterthought.

''Minnie, you actually came!'' Abraxas shouted and split his face into a brighter grin at the woman's slight annoyance.

''Grand-père, what is Professor McGonagall doing here?''

''I gave her Hermione's ticket, naturally. Really, Draco, did you expect me to just let it waste? Or,'' he shuddered, ''give it to charity?''

None laughed at his joke.

''It was a joke.'' Abraxas said, to specify that he wasn't that heartless of a capitalist aristocrat. Not yet, at least. There was time for bitterness to overwhelm him.

''Could've fooled me.'' Minerva McGonagall conjured up a laugh out of the children around them. Abraxas shrugged and averted his glazed over eyes. Narcissa and Lucius _finally_ aparated to the destination, then they grasped the portkey.

The area they arrived in was stricken with various tents and magical folk from all over the world. Lucius went about pitching their tent, Narcissa took over peacock duty (Abraxas rarely travelled anywhere without them), Draco and his friends fled the first chance they got, and Minerva offered to help Abraxas find their seats.

''Thank you, Minnie.'' Abraxas smiled affectionately. Minerva offered the other an arm to latch onto and lead him up the twisting stairs of the magnificent arena. While they walked, Abraxas twirled his cane and hummed a song about Waterloo.

People swarmed to get a better look at the pitch and see where history would be made. Journalists harassed people for statements. One tried to get near Abraxas Malfoy, but Minerva's harsh gaze made him think better of it.

''Are you any better? You don't seem in pain.'' Minerva asked him as they entered an elevator that would launch them all the way up to their seats. The stairs would take too long, especially since Abraxas clung to her ardently.

''I am in tremendous pain, but you learn to live with it.'' Abraxas snickered and it caused Minerva to purse her lips and wait for the confession to drop. ''All the books I've read to remedy my appearance have been for naught.''

''Your makeup is well applied,'' she praised him. Abraxas thanked her.

''Then I went into another direction to find a way to _transfer_ my illness. To a muggle or some other abomination.'' Abraxas trailed off and his speech slurred slightly. Minerva held him up and wished she'd find their seats and deliver him from herself.

''I take it that did not work with the modified Dragon Pox?''

''Dearest Tom thought of everything.'' Abraxas howled with horrified laughter.

Around them, the first match began to fill out. The French team flew across the pitch in a rehearsed choreography and the whole arena lit in blue, white, and red.

''Are you on something, Abraxas?'' Minerva stopped beating around the bush and demanded to know. Her stern face did nothing but make Abraxas laugh more. He was not a Gryffindor student of hers to cower before her.

The Canadian team flew onto the pitch in a blaze of red and white.

Some folk from the stands got too rowdy and the aurors positioned near the rails hushed their dissent. Abraxas wondered how much they were paying them. Then a messy haired boy by the name of Harry Potter got into view and Abraxas realised that they were a new batch of aurors and would not get paid for this.

The elevator opened. Abraxas saw Draco, his friends, and the unfortunately present Greengrass family, and tore from Minerva's grasp to get there using his cane. He should not appear weak in front of the probably-will-be in-laws.

He turned to Minerva and winked. ''I have enough for you, too.''

Her face soured at the offer. Abraxas withdrew it and said that if she was going to be like that she didn't deserve his numbing spells.

''Those are _illegal_ if not done by a certified healer, Abraxas. What were you thinking?''

''I'm proficient in magic, Minerva.'' Abraxas dropped the pet name. ''Besides, I am not going to spend my time at the Quidditch World Cup whilst in pain.''

Minerva stilled her tongue, but had to say this. ''You cannot do this during school.''

''I would have no need to.'' Abraxas reassured and took a seat next to his family, beckoning for her to sit next to him.

Astoria was badgering Draco about something and proudly, Abraxas could see that Draco did not snap at her once. He was taking this betrothal better than Abraxas had taken his.

''Come now, Minnie, we're colleagues. Give me Dumbledore gossip. You know I crave it.''

Minerva indulged him. ''Albus thinks you might get rid of the curse on the DADA position.''

Abraxas let out a sound that said he very much doubted that. ''That man always wishes other people could fix his problems. If the jinx becomes a problem for me personally, I will help.''

''Trust you never to want to help without it affecting you personally.'' Minerva coolly said as she watched the French team whizz past the Canadian team.

''Trust you to have morals even after war.''

''That is when they are most necessary, Abraxas.''

''Not if one is dying.''

''How can you love him after what he's done this to you?''

''It's easy to love the dead, Minerva.'' Abraxas whispered, keeping his eyes fixed on the quidditch match beneath him. ''One can be insufferable and a bastard while they live, but when they die there will always be praises sung. It is easy to _forgive_ the dead.''

* * *

Montgomery Goldsmith felt, for the first time in years, actual fear grip his heart and squeeze it in a very unwelcome way. His throat tightened and his breath constricted. His usual glamour was fortified with a few potions to make it long lasting.

Hermione bid them goodbye and scampered off to find her boyfriend, leaving him with Zorka.

''How does Yaxley look like?'' Zorka inquired. Montgomery calculated how much time it would take them to pull this off. The Slav had decided to help out anyway, as long as he gave her as little to do as possible. Keeping guard and locating Yaxley were important but menial tasks.

''Like a middle aged man with a receding hairline who's fed up with his existence, but stays alive because his lord asked him nicely.''

''You should go into writing fiction, not doctorate papers.''

''Thank you, Zorka, your compliments keep me alive.''

Zorka placed a comforting hand on his shoulder and told him that he had nothing to worry about. It was a lie, but lies were welcome in tense situations. This much was universal in all countries.

Red flares and fireworks lit up the sky. Montgomery craned his neck and observed half-heartedly as quidditch players flew through the maple leaf in the sky.

''I'll summon Yaxley to us.'' Voldemort said. He whispered a spell in Latin that would help him connect to a specific Death Eater via their mark. ''Potter will be on the left wing atop floor 82.''

Zorka nodded and took out a vial out of her purse. Before taking it, she cast a notice-me-not spell that left them shrouded in other people's indifference for their doings. After drinking it, her body transformed into an older woman that had brown hair with greys intermixed.

''Is this anyone in particular?''

''My mother-in-law.''

''Brilliant. Makes me wish I had Mrs. Cole's hair.''

''You look inconspicuous like this.'' She gestured his blue eyes and light brown hair.

''I look like Tom Riddle who failed at bleaching his hair and put contacts in, Zorka. Let's do this quickly so I can flee back to Kotor victoriously and let you drink me under the table.''

Zorka gave a mock bow. ''My lord.''

Voldemort had been thinking about this day for a while. He'd first devised a plan where there were more parties involved, but out of those he had wished to enlist, Yaxley was the best shot. That plan fell into water and got carried off by the currents. Zorka wished to watch quidditch and save him from failure. It was always good to have someone as pessimistic as Zorka on board. Plans stopped being idealistic and started taking on a rational hue.

Yaxley was in a constant state of panic when they found him. He almost dropped to his knees and bowed properly, but Montgomery had stopped him, holding him upright and still.

''What is the matter with you, you idiot?'' the eldest wizard hissed, threatening to roll his tongue in a parseltongue curse.

''My apologies,'' Yaxley found it odder to look at king blue than crimson red, although he managed. ''My lord, how will we do this?'

''My associate,'' Montgomery motioned to disguised Zorka, who waved, ''and I will cover you while you take aim.''

Yaxley's eyes widened. ''My l-lord? You wish to…'' He gulped. ''You want _me_ to kill the boy?'' His voice went below a whisper, but Zorka then told him that nobody could hear what they were talking about. It eased the wizard's nerves slightly. Only slightly.

''Last time I tried killing him, I ended up… _well_.'' Montgomery spat out the last word with venom even a Basilisk could envy. ''You are a marvellous caster, Yaxley. A simple green ought to finish him off for good this time.''

''Sir, if I do this-''

''There is no 'if' here, Yaxley. It's either do or don't.'' Lord Voldemort snarled in the weaker man's face and hissed at him cruelly, pouring in all of his intimidation into the next sentence. ''You will do this and you will be rewarded. Failing to comply will leave you a childless beggar. Do not call my bluff on this.''

Zorka coughed to get their attention, her form stiff and strictly business. ''The match is almost over. Next up are Italy and Senegal. Loads of space for a green firework to go off.''

''Yes.'' Montgomery took a few steps back from Yaxley and placed his hands on the railings, enjoying the chaotic atmosphere that before would have blared in his ears and made him uncomfortable.

Nothing could ruin this day. He'd taken everything into consideration. Hermione was on the other side of the pitch giggling with her beau and his friends. Harry Potter was nowhere near her.

Voldemort would finally see that pathetic whelp perish before his eyes from a safe distance that promised his continued living.

Oh, what a wondrous plan!

* * *

''I am going to go and bet!'' Abraxas Malfoy, in all his befuddled glory, stood from his chair and sauntered towards the elevator to take him to the nearest betting station on floor 82. ''Minnie, come with me!''

''I'd rather not.'' Minerva said, but stood up and left to keep an eye on her former schoolmate.

* * *

''Zorka,'' Voldemort ordered the witch, ''go and cause some havoc, would you?''

''Si, signore.'' Zorka went to find some Italian fans just itching to throw a bunch of curses and distract Senegal's team. It was all illegal, but sport mellowed any punishment for misconduct during the Cup. She began talking them up how Senegal was going to confound the Italian seeker, which riled the others until boiling point. That was when she offered them a chance to prove their love for their team. Nationalism was a powerful tool. They were all drowning in adrenaline, irregular substances no one ought to have consumed, and patriotism.

''Let's go teach them a lesson!'' Zorka said in Italian and, when they all rose from their seats to stage the necessary diversion, she signalled Voldemort.

* * *

''Do you think Potter accepted this job because he's quidditch mad?'' Abraxas asked Minerva as they rode in the elevator. Through the cracks they could see the freshly-hatched auror wearing his uniform with pride and leaning on the railings to get a better view of the action.

''I reckon they threw it on him.'' Minerva helped the older man get out. ''It is just an added bonus that he actually likes quidditch. This type of security job is demanding.''

Abraxas hummed in accord.

The betting station was filled with people screaming at the poor worker. Abraxas crossed his arms and waited patiently for his turn. It amazed Minerva that the man had infinite supply of patience when it came to quidditch. Anything else ended in brandished wands.

''Are you well?''

''Drowsy, Minnie. Not in pain, but drowsy.''

''Perhaps you should retire.'' Minerva instantly took back her word when he raised his brows menacingly. It did her no good to anger him. While her friend and colleague queued, Minerva moved to greet Potter.

* * *

The Italians began shooting spells to distract the opposing team, giving perfect cover for a killing curse to sneak past and kill Harry Potter once and for all. Voldemort stood by Yaxley's side and urged him to take aim and fire.

''I do not have a clear view of him, my lord. Minerva McGonagall is with him.''

''Shoot, she's lived the years she's lived. Just get the boy!''

Yaxley's outstretched wand arm shook. The pressure was getting to him.

''Yaxley, listen to me.'' Voldemort calmly addressed him. ''Shoot the boy, kill him, and I erase our link. I will get rid of the mark from your forearm. You'll be free from your duty as a Death Eater.''

The man searched Voldemort for lies, could not find anything, and steadied his arm by will force. Honey caught more flies, after all.

* * *

Abraxas bet three hundred galleons on Malawi, got some stares, and went to fetch Minerva McGonagall. Life without him was sure to be boring her to tears.

* * *

''My lord, I really think I missed my chance now.'' Yaxley began to let tremors overwhelm his good breeding.

''I don't care about the Dumbledore fangirl! Kill her, too!''

''My lord, I really think you should take a long look at who's talking to Potter now and tell me whether or not I should shoot.''

Voldemort tore his gaze from Yaxley's incompetence and finally looked at where Potter was. Abraxas Malfoy stood out from the crowd like a beacon of light that deflected all darkness from himself. He smiled and flaunted with his hands as he spoke some anecdote nobody wanted to hear about, but bit through it like proper suck-ups.

''When he's out of shot, I want you to fire. There can be no indecision.'' Voldemort spoke carefully, eager for Yaxley to understand the words he spoke.

''I understand, my lord.''

Voldemort surged through the crowd, fighting inebriated fans off like natives fought off tourists through streets during summer. He reached Minerva McGonagall and Abraxas Malfoy, trying his hardest to ignore Harry Potter. That boy was Yaxley's business.

First Montgomery had to separate Abraxas and Minerva. That was a lethal combination and he didn't want to find out what would happen were McGonagall to recognize him. He'd subdued his magical signature, but even that was under a time limit.

He chewed on his lip absentmindedly and thought.

He wasn't close enough to understand what they were talking about, but from Abraxas' frown, it wasn't a neutral topic. He moved closer.

''Potter, do you know where the healers are situated?''

''They're on every tenth floor. So, floor 80. And 90 and 100.''

''Minerva.'' Abraxas held a tight warning in his whisper. ''Do not presume your place.''

''You bet 300 galleons on Malawi! No coherent man would do that.''

Voldemort had to scoff at such a statement. It was as if Minerva didn't know Abraxas. In 1956, the man had imported fifty peacocks to celebrate his mother's funeral. She had always hated her son's obsession with peacocks. Was it a smart thing to do? No, of course not. That was Abraxas Malfoy's philosophy in a nutshell. Did it feel good to parade around with peacocks while his mother was being buried? Well, if Tom could remember, _yes,_ it had felt good.

''You are going to go back to my grandson and help him combat the wretched being which is Astoria Greengrass' mother, and I,'' Abraxas gave a pregnant pause before speaking, ''will be on this floor, enjoying myself.''

Potter had the emotional intelligence to look away and try not to eavesdrop on the conversation he had no right to be a part of, but due to close proximity, found himself in.

''Fine.'' Minerva said, but before entering the elevator, she told Potter to keep an eye on Abraxas.

''I do not need a keeper!''

''Why did you invite me, then?''

''To have fun with you! I know you once knew what that word meant, Minnie.''

Minnie deigned him with no reply.

''Who died and made her so strict?'' Abraxas asked Potter in a slurred manner.

That last bit seemed suspicious to Tom. Abraxas never got drunk in public places. He had made it his life's duty not to embarrass his family name like that. Being ostentatious and flimsy with money did not, in his opinion, count as embarrassment, simply failure to be a proper heir. Tom had once told him that those two were basically the same, but Abraxas had ignored his words and continued being himself, no matter how much his family so detested it.

''Mr. Malfoy, maybe you should really go to a healer.''

''Peh! A healer, he says. Mr. Potter, have you any idea what it's like to have to rely upon healers?'' Before Potter could say anything, Abraxas shouted, ''Agony! They're idiots who ration magical cures all whilst saying that you cannot have more because of bad side effects. Well, I won't listen to them, Mr. Potter. Those money-grubbing leeches!''

''Oh… he's on drugs _again_.'' Realisation dawned on Voldemort who found the whole situation infuriating. ''I see an old peacock can't unlearn tricks.''

However, this titbit of information gave him the strength to waltz over to his mortal enemy, speak some horrible French, and usher Abraxas away from the rails, giving Yaxley a perfect shot.

''Mon chéri, je te cherchais!'' Montgomery Goldsmith said and grabbed Abraxas by the arm, taking him away from Potter who was convinced that he should just let anyone near a troubled soul like his Abraxas.

Abraxas rapidly blinked his weariness away and took one long, measured look. ''Tom?''

Montgomery Goldsmith thought that he would allow the earth to swallow him whole and never spit him out that very moment.

He dipped into Abraxas' mind and felt happiness and fondness and yearning and something like anger, but that could very well be a remnant of Abraxas' conversation with Potter and Minerva.

''No,'' Tom choked on the word and carefully let go of Abraxas, distancing himself even more from the spectre that drew him in like moth to flame. ''You’ve made a mistake, sir.''

* * *

''Tom?''

Abraxas watched the young man – well, around Lucius' age, really – holding onto him for dear life.

''No,'' the man stammered, confused and possibly even insulted. ''You’ve made a mistake, sir.''

''Ah,'' Abraxas said, knowing that his dream was bust and nothing more than fanciful wistfulness, ''happens to the best of us. Good luck. At least I mistook you for someone handsome.''

The man seemed to reply – he had blue eyes, Abraxas noted resentfully – but he ignored what the doppelganger said. There was no point listening to him.

''Goodbye.'' Abraxas moved from his grasp. He passed Potter just as a shimmering, emerald light blasted the auror in question off of the rails and downward from the 82nd floor.

Blood curdling screaming followed. Whistles and orders of a calm and orderly evacuation blared. None listened. All stood from their seats and rushed for the exits.

Abraxas glanced around for the man that spoke broken French, but couldn't find him.

Minerva McGonagall grabbed him by the arm and what fragmented thought he wished to piece together regarding the attack on The Boy Who Lived and the Tom Riddle Look Alike dropped and shattered.


	7. Gilderoy Lockhart is a Parasite

Lord Voldemort had never liked quidditch as much as he had while watching Harry Potter falling to his death. He pushed Abraxas away and surged past screaming children and adults until he reached Zorka and Yaxley. A jolt of hot, searing pain ran through him, but he pushed it down and gritted his teeth to endure it, neither knowing nor caring where it had come from. He was old and this was a new body. Odd things were bound to happen. Not in his wildest dreams would Lord Voldemort think it had something to do with a horcrux. Especially not one he wasn't even aware of making.

Upon spotting Yaxley, Voldemort noticed that the man barely controlled his breathing. His wand was out and he was overrun with tremors, this time out of adrenaline and pride rather than fear and nervousness. Zorka grabbed Yaxley and awaited further instructions.

''We need to apparate before the aurors put in wards,'' Montgomery cautioned his two-person crew. Yaxley's shakes had to be contagious, for Montgomery felt them rattle his bones and his teeth with euphoria.

''My lo-''

Zorka clamped a hand around Yaxley's running mouth. ''We can talk later. Let's go.''

She took the lead, having found them the nearest, least populated exit. People shoved at each other and authorities shouted for attention. The crowd was going mad for justice and demanding reimbursement. A few souls shouted that just because someone was shot with the killing curse didn't mean that they could cancel the Cup! Abraxas Malfoy's voice rang the loudest at that.

''Was the blond old man I saw you talking to...'' Zorka trailed off, deliberately not wanting to spit things out. Yaxley kept his attention on the stairs creaking beneath his feet. Apparently she'd broken the wards to the VIP stairway that politicians use.

''As you said to Yaxley,'' Voldemort quoted her with a wicked smirk that gave her all the answer she needed, ''we can talk later.''

Neither of his crew commented on his raspy voice or how glazed his eyes were.

The sting spread from his lungs to his heart and then jumped to his throat, but when it reached his head, it split like a migraine that wouldn't quit. That was when Montgomery collapsed onto Zorka. She caught him expertly, more instinctively than intentionally.

Panic flared from her. ''Monty?'' She pushed him onto his feet and against a wall to steady him. Yaxley warily observed his weakness and bobbed his Adam's apple. He rubbed his Dark Mark self-consciously, all the while wondering if he'd gone through this for nothing.

''I am fine.'' Lord Voldemort said, fighting down pain and emerging victorious. ''It was just a momentary…lapse in control.''

Blinking slowly gave him enough control over his eyes to look around without haze obstructing them. The pain lessened, but an ache remained. If he wished to be reminiscent, Voldemort could say that it reminded him of how he felt upon splitting his soul. However, it had never hurt this badly. In fact, the act of splitting his soul hadn't hurt, merely left an emptiness that he couldn't fill. This pain was akin to someone setting his broken arm hastily.

''Did you find a weak spot in the warding for us to apparate through?'' Montgomery asked her, switching into his American accent, in the process confusing Yaxley very much. It seemed easier to assume a role and stick with it than to accept the sweltering reality he'd found himself in.

''On it.'' Zorka said in a way that sounded like she wished to ask him something, but thought better of it. Ugh, Voldemort pulled back his lips in a snarl. Zorka best not pester him about his wellbeing.

She cast series of spells on the wards and then when a yellow light glowed briefly, she cast a maximum bombarda on it, shattering the weakest part of the arena's walls.

''Will you be able to apparate us like this?''

''Drop the subject.'' Voldemort ordered her harshly, almost barking it at her. ''I am _fine_.''

Zorka wisely ceased her worry for the ill old wizard. She poured her magic into keeping the wards from closing in on their escape route while Yaxley begged his lord for attention.

''M-my lord.'' Yaxley stuttered and slowly rolled up his sleeve. ''I shot the boy.''

''He's dead, yess.'' Voldemort leered at the man's Dark Mark. It was always nice to feel the pulsating magic intertwined with the wearer's life force. The twisting snake of the mark stopped to look at Voldemort, appraising him after a lengthy absence.

''I never used that curse.'' Zorka said, inferring the killing curse. ''How do you know he's dead?''

''I shot him, you trite woman! It's the killing curse! It cannot be that complex!'' Yaxley shouted defensively.

Zorka bit back a scathing comment and looked up to see if anyone was going to climb down. Most of the VIP had high positions on the hundredth floor. Zorka figured that they would have a few more minutes.

Their disguises, however, had less.

''Now, now, Yaxley.'' Voldemort pacified the man and grabbed his marked forearm, slowly sliding his hand across it. As it moved, so did the mark, disappearing into Voldemort, its magic finally returning to its rightful owner. Yaxley's knees buckled, but he grabbed a hold of the wall to steady himself. He felt lighter, able to breathe easier, like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

Voldemort turned to Zorka and explained, ''The curse really is simple to use. That's why they've made it illegal.''

Footsteps sounded above them. Zorka's appearance returned to normal, her hair curling and elongating and darkening. To make matters much worse, Zorka noticed Voldemort's disguise fading. Just like he'd taken back the Dark Mark off of Yaxley, time took back his ordinary skin to reveal his scales. Red flickered over blue and the light brown hair turned dark, rusted bronze.

Yaxley grimaced.

It didn't help their situation that Voldemort's concealed magical signature, also, decided to stop working. To wizards and witches, their magical signature was similar to that of a fingerprint. Except if it was powerful it could suffocate others into compliance. Voldemort was known to use it to intimidate.

His eyes widened as he grabbed Zorka and repeated her wise words of the night: ''Let's go!''

''You're on your own now, Yaxley!'' Voldemort said as he and Zorka jumped through the broken ward and apparated mid fall.

Hurried steps continued above him. Then they stopped, and Yaxley didn't know what to think of that.

Not until he heard an all too familiar drawl.

''Maximillian Yaxley. How fortunate for me to see you after seventeen _long_ years.''

The pureblood wizard, still clutching his wand with the killing curse on it, reluctantly turned his head and saw the pale, impassive mug of Lucius Malfoy.

''Lucius.'' He tipped his head as a greeting, but found no friendliness in the Malfoy. His heart beat in a rhythm no man should have to bear. Slowly, Yaxley stepped down another floor, but Lucius followed him keenly, like a man on a mission. Like a man that knew things.

Yaxley's wand arm shook.

''Maximillian,'' Lucius purred and advanced towards him, ''do you think you can run? After I've sensed _his_ magic after seventeen years and found you instead?''

''No, but I can apparate.'' Yaxley, like a smart coward, jumped through the same window his lord had opened. Though - and this was the real kicker - he hadn't expected Lucius Malfoy to seize him and side-along apparate.

* * *

''THEY CAN'T CANCEL THE QUIDDITCH WORLD CUP, MINERVA!''

''Harry Potter was attacked with the killing curse, Abraxas!''

''SO? THAT'S _NORMAL_ FOR HIM!''

* * *

Hermione had the most luck of all. She was on the other side of the arena when the curse was cast. When they'd announced that a killing curse had been fired, Viktor Krum grabbed hold of her hand and helped her navigate the ensuing chaos.

The quidditch teams and their closest got out of the arena first because no one could afford to have anything bad happen to them. Krum held Hermione close to him and noticed that she worriedly looked around to see if she knew anyone around her that she could help.

''Viktor,'' Hermione asked him, ''has anyone heard what's happened?''

''Your friend Harry Potter,'' Krum carefully relayed, ''fell from 82nd floor, supposedly shot with killing curse.''

Hermione's eyes widened. ''Oh, Harry,'' she said only as someone so used to horrible things happening around Harry Potter could, ''not _again_.''

''Again? I thought he was just shot at as baby.'' Krum leaned closer to Hermione, who sighed in frustration.

''Well, yes. While Gilderoy Lockhart was teaching in second year he got his bones liquefied, and was treated by the student body as an outsider because he could speak to snakes. But in our third year he also nearly got mangled by a killer who turned out to be his godfather, then nearly died at the hands of his werewolf father-figure.'' Hermione took a deep breath, and Krum could not help but smile at her passionate ranting. ''Fourth year went smoothly, actually, but then fifth year that wretched, toad woman came to 'teach','' the witch sneered, ''and she forced him to write some lines that etched into his skin like tattoos. Not a good look on him. To be honest, Viktor, he's just so clumsy I am not the least bit surprised this happened to him. Do you know how many times I thought he'd died? Too many. I am going to wait until I hear from a reliable source that Harry's died and then I'll cry for him.'' Hermione said logically, like a logical person knew how.

Viktor let out a small, breathy laugh. He didn't want to poke fun at her friend's horrible luck, but some of this was too terrible not to laugh at.

Hermione seemed to have the same line of thought because she giggled at the absurdity of it all as well. She clasped Viktor's hand in hers and leaned into his comforting touch.

''HERMIONE!'' A cracking voice shouted. Hermione turned to see Theodore Nott looking at her like one looked at a test they hadn't studied for, but aced.

''What is it, Theo?'' Hermione broke from Krum's embrace and strolled towards him and the newly emerged Malfoy family. Little Astoria Greengrass and her mother stood out as the odd ones out. Narcissa looked around for her husband, but couldn't find him anywhere. Draco took her hand in his and squeezed it as comfort.

''Did you hear what happened to Potter?'' Theodore shouted, too exalted for Hermione's liking. She'd never pegged that Theodore hated Harry.

''Is he dead?'' Hermione asked quietly, curling in on herself at the prospect.

''NO!'' Theodore Nott shouted atop his lungs with a proud, blinding smile. ''He's a miracle, Hermione! Sweet Circe, he's _immune_ to the killing curse! He's survived it **_twice_**!''

* * *

When word got out to the masses that Harry Potter was shot by an overzealous firework spell that just so happened to be green, the people demanded the Quidditch World Cup continue. Out of safety reasons, it was postponed for next week.

To celebrate, Abraxas took out his wand to cast another numbing spell on him, but Minerva snatched his from his grasp like a cat pounced to kill a mouse.

Abraxas first looked scandalised, then resigned, and then, from his dragon-scale boot, he took out a white wand to use instead. ''I have a spare, Minnie.''

He blew her a kiss and enjoyed the way she floundered to find the correct words. Having found none, she let out an exasperated groan and asked him for how long he'd had the wand.

''Since 1981, naturally.'' Abraxas answered and twirled the yew wand of legend about like it didn't once belong to Lord Voldemort.

* * *

London's noises filled the air when Zorka and Lord Voldemort staggered into it. Zorka had never been to England before this long, exhausting day. She gazed carefully at the wizard she'd become fond of over the years of their companionship.

His bringing her to London meant something. She'd read that during apparition memories were important. You had to visualise the place to appear in it. London was familiar ground, then.

He straightened out and flung his arm tirelessly to morph his robes into a simple suit and his features into his usual glamour. The magic, however, remained unveiled. Zorka had gotten used to its presence. Her mother had once or twice commented how powerful the man was, but it was held more in warning than in awe. The Montenegrin witch had shrugged off her mother's worry and struck up a friendship with the man. She had helped him acclimate to his new body, after all. It was the only logical outcome to be friends.

''Monty,'' Zorka tried to appease him by not calling attention to his lack of motor control, but had to get him to let her help him move, ''do you know anywhere where we can go to eat? I'm starving.''

Proud people tended to like having someone rely on them.

Montgomery offered her his arm and she took it to steady him more than to let him lead. His features betrayed his disgust for the place they'd found themselves in. The context was lost on Zorka, however, so she simply elected to keep quiet.

''We're in fucking _Woolwich_.'' The man supplied after a lengthy silence. ''I can't believe I took us to Woolwich.''

''That good?''

''I grew up here.'' Tom Riddle began to push his feet to move. Each step was loud and lacked the grace his usual movements held. This was someone bitter, someone cynical, and someone so horribly aware of everything around him that he couldn't think.

Zorka dipped into his mind for the first time in seven years.

A loud, incomprehensible screech blared and the more Zorka tried to spend time in Tom Riddle's mind, the higher and louder it escalated. All until she screamed and jumped out of his mind, having found nothing but chaos and disjunction. She dropped his arm and covered her ears, the after affects still ringing and buzzing.

''Not quite easy pickings anymore, am I?'' The dark wizard jeered.

''No. Not easy at all.'' Zorka brightened up when he snapped his fingers and the pain mellowed into a faint scream in the back of her mind.

''Why?'' he asked her, more curious than angry. They'd made truce after she had gotten into his unguarded mind and found important information. Back then, he had been too physically and magically weak to do anything but offer to teach her what he knew, in exchange for silence and collaboration.

''You didn't seem well.''

''I am better than I was before.''

''True.'' His being able to toss her out of his mind so quickly was proof enough. ''What was the sound?''

''Sirens.'' Tom Riddle's voice was so soft and tired Zorka tensed, not at all expecting it. Montgomery Goldsmith was an odd man; Lord Voldemort demanded respect. Tom Riddle, it seemed, was quiet and had the weight of the world to carry. ''The British government would turn them on when an air strike was about to happen.''

''That's rough.''

''Turned useful, didn't it?'' He pointed to her ears and smirked triumphantly.

Zorka made an expression of exaggerated pain. It drew a laugh out of him. He had a beautiful laugh, and when she knew it was genuine, she admired it even more.

They rounded a corner and a McDonald's appeared. Zorka had never eaten at one and it surprised her to see Montgomery leading her towards it.

''You do know you aren't really an American, right? If your British roots are tugging we can go and eat…what's a really British meal?''

''Tea and minding your own business.'' Tom Riddle answered. ''Really popular during the war when food was scarce.''

Zorka snorted a laugh and smiled when the other's lips curled into a faint grin.

''Besides, this is a very personal place for me.'' Montgomery gestured the McDonald's.

''How?'' Zorka asked, flabbergasted. ''I don't think they had it in the 1940s.''

''No, of course not... I haven't been to London since 1974. Coincidentally, the same year this institution of unhealthy eating was erected. There used to be an orphanage here, but it burned down in a heinous, _fiendish_ fire.’’

''We don't have to eat there if it's too personal for you.''

''Nonsense.'' Montgomery laughed joyfully. ''I like it. It's a victory. We're celebrating Harry Potter's death!''

Zorka cheered.

* * *

Harry Potter stirred awake and was bombarded with healers casting spells on him to see if it really was the killing curse. It was. One gasped and called him a miracle!

* * *

''Can we look at the big clock?'' Zorka sounded, like a gleeful tourist.

A sigh only natives from a tourist place could ever sigh. ''If we must, Zorka.''

On their way there, Tom Riddle, London expert, imperiused a shop vendor to get them some 'I Love London' T-shirts for free. Zorka promptly put one on, but Voldemort elected to carry his and use it to sit on grass near the Thames.

''Let's go eat fish and chips!''

Tom Riddle stood up from his spot and stretched his limbs, finding nothing too hard to do on such a lovely, successful day. ''Sure, but afterwards, we need to stop by another place close to my withered, ugly heart.''

Zorka asked why.

''I have acted very unkindly to someone and I need to make things right. Guilt is eating at me alive.'' The dramatic sentence sounded insincere, but the haggard look that came upon Montgomery suggested otherwise.

* * *

Abraxas invited everyone he knew to go to Malfoy Manor until things cleared up. He hugged Hermione first, asked her how her mentorship was going, and if it was really so exciting she couldn't bother to write him a letter once or twice.

Hermione flushed and tried to grasp for straws. ''I just lost track of time. I barely wrote my parents.'' And they barely wrote her.

''Ah,'' Abraxas admonished, ''but you wrote to them!''

''Have you seen Lucius?'' Narcissa asked Ophelia Greengrass, matriarch of that particular family. The woman had given Narcissa a simple look over before replying in a curt tone that a woman that couldn't keep her husband by her side couldn't keep house.

Narcissa began to see why Abraxas Malfoy didn't like the Greengrasses. Lucius was the one that pushed and pushed for that marriage because it suited him politically. He was trying to run for Minister. But that conquest was ways off from near. Daphne was a darling girl, and so was Astoria (if a bit young for Draco), but their mother… Narcissa didn't want to look improper or of ill breeding, but she really wished she could snub the woman publically.

Draco slowly pried Hermione out of Abraxas Malfoy's speech perimeter and asked her how she was faring.

''Pretty good, actually.'' Hermione smiled and then began to list the extensive spells and theory she'd learnt whilst under the tutelage of one Montgomery Goldsmith. Draco looked more and more put off as the listing went on.

''I've forgiven you, you know.'' Hermione said then brightly. Draco blinked. She outstretched a hand to him and, when he took it, said. ''We're back to being best friends, yeah?''

''Yeah.''

''Awesome.''

* * *

Apparating with someone was always tricky business. Was that person skilled? Did they know what to do and how to do it without making the other vomit upon contact? Would splinching occur?

Luckily – and that had become a keyword when Zorka dealt with foreign witches and wizards – they arrived unharmed in front of a desolate, rundown Manor.

''Oh, how fun.'' Montgomery gazed grimly at the muggle building. ''It's actually warded.''

''I'll do it.'' Zorka then set about dismantling the complicated wards. It took her ten minutes to break in.

Zorka swung open the door and a giant snake jumped at her.

''JEBEM TI OCA!'' The witch cursed and, just in a nick of time, managed to evade the cunning snake.

Upon seeing Monty, the snake stopped her assault and hissed. Montgomery looked utterly appalled at the snake's hissing. Offended first, then tired, then furious, and then apologetic. Zorka wished she could speak parseltongue more than she ever had.

Montgomery finally settled the snake down until she wrapped around him like a scarf. She hissed and Monty hissed back, the softest expression on his face. He looked at her, fonder than when he spoke to Hermione. And that was saying something!

''Zorka,'' Montgomery edged closer so the snake was in arm's reach to Zorka, ''this is Nagini. She's a dear friend of mine.''

Nagini hissed something menacingly. Tom hissed back to calm her.

''She thinks you're Bellatrix Black. The confusion will pass,'' Montgomery reassured.

''I don't even look like that woman,'' Zorka bristled.

''No, you don't. Bella was less sane.'' Montgomery pet Nagini's head. ''And less understanding of my relationship with Abraxas.''

Zorka choked on her own spit.

Nagini hissed and it reminisced of laughter.

* * *

Lucius cast a stinging hex straight at Yaxley's wand hand, accioed the wand into his left hand, and told him if he wanted to get out alive, he should tell him everything he knew. They were in a field somewhere in England. It wasn't as if the country lacked them.

''How many of us are left?'' Lucius asked.

Yaxley shrugged his shoulders and closed his eyes. ''I am not a part of that 'us', Lucius.'' He unrolled his sleeve to reveal bare flesh. Lucius' gasp of envy curled Yaxley's lips in a devious smirk.

''The boy's not easy to kill. Have any of you stopped to see what your actions have reaped?'' Lucius asked, already having pieced together what had transpired at the quidditch world cup. ''There would have been news of his death plastered everywhere.'' Lucius fiddled with his wand to tune it to radio channels. ''No mention of any catastrophe on the Quidditch World Cup.''

From the wand boomed a commentator’s voice that relayed the happenings of the Quidditch World Cup for those who couldn’t attend: **_‘’And the Quidditch World Cup will be returning at a later date for safety reasons. The spell that toppled the Boy Who Lived turned out to be nothing more than a firework spell. He is well and unharmed. For more information stay tuned.’’_**

Lucius flicked his wand and sizzled off the connection. He grinned next, like a dragon with too many teeth. ''You _failed_.''

''I...'' Yaxley whispered hoarsely. He inhaled and exhaled to keep himself from becoming a bundle of agitated nerves. ''No...I shot, I never miss. I never miss.''

Yaxley was one of the better casters of the Death Eaters. First was Bellatrix Lestrange, second was Zephyr Avery, (one of the initial Knights of Walpurgis) and third was Maximillian Yaxley. Everyone else paled in comparison.

''You _rarely_ miss.'' Lucius delighted in hurting the other man's ego. ''Harry Potter lives.''

''Imagine if he had not lived.''

''We would all be suffering greatly.''

''Our lord lives, Lucius.''

 _''Ours_ now, is he?''

Yaxley made a desperate whimpering sound in the back of his throat that he passed off as a cough. ''I fear him, Lucius. He is even more unstable. Parades himself with some Bellatrix look-alike. She isn't even pretty. Nothing as beautiful as that sister-in-law of yours.'' He let out a breath tinged with want.

''Keep your sexual frustration out of any conversation you have with me, Maximillian,'' Lucius ordered in a voice he reserved for house elves and other such inferior beings to his luminous self.

''Lucius, it is a shame Bellatrix loved someone who could never love her back.''

''It is hers to love whom she pleases, but to please whom she must love.'' Lucius said, remembering Rodolphus Lestrange and how that man had drawn the shortest straw when it came to life. He'd actually loved Bellatrix, but she'd tossed him aside.

''Should we tell Lord Malfoy?'' Yaxley observed Lucius' face for any sign of hesitation or emotion. He found uncertainty dancing in his eyes and, in his laboured breathing, saw a glimpse of fear of the unknown.

''I think it is best that we do not.''

''But surely if they confront–''

''They will not.'' Because their lord was a coward that fled and left them all to bear the brunt of his actions. Because most of his father's magic was spent keeping him upright and vocal.

''We speak of this to no one.'' Lucius commanded gravely and apparated back to his home to see his family and avoid eye contact with his father.

* * *

Meanwhile, Gilderoy Lockhart was on a _hunt_.

People that achieved, Gilderoy mused as he entered a building to speak to a subject, were easier to fool than those that didn't.

They were easier to get talking because they had something to say. Instead of the awkward sputtering of someone that had no achievements, people that achieved loved to talk, to animate, to have people like Gilderoy be in awe of them!

''Is it your usual business to conduct interviews on the interviewee's private property?'' The witch at the door quirked an inquisitive brow at Gilderoy Lockhart, who nodded and said that it was all for the sake of efficiency.

It was much easier to obliviate someone in their own home and lay them to rest on a couch.

''Miss Nowak,'' Gilderoy addressed the woman professionally, ''would you care to commence?''

''Wouldn't you like something to drink first? I have some cola.'' Nowak boasted of her varied beverages. Who was Gilderoy to refuse? Nowak smiled and went back to her kitchen to pour them some of the fizzy drinks.

In the meantime, Gilderoy scanned his surroundings. The windows had drawn curtains because Nowak was a witch in a muggle neighbourhood. The television was on some polish news channel to hide their conversation. Really now, Gilderoy smiled, it was as if she was making his job easier on _purpose_!

Nowak came back with their drinks and took a seat opposite of him. Gilderoy sent her a peachy smile that bordered on flirty.

''Miss Nowak, tell me about your time spent flying over the world on a single broom with a backpack full of supplies.'' He leaned in and dazzled her with his twinkling eyes (that move he'd swiped from Dumbledore while he was a professor at Hogwarts. Rather uneventful year, that 1992.) ''Off the record, did you use an extension charm?''

''No, I just had a very big bag.'' Nowak replied and took a sip of her cola. Gilderoy took note of her words mentally, but paced his fingers from taking notes just yet.

''We're on the record now.'' Gilderoy waved his wand and turned it into a recording device for the evening. ''Miss Nowak, where did you go on your trip and what did you achieve?''

Nowak carefully coughed away from the wand and got closer to it – perfect distance for a quick obliviate, thought Gilderoy. Then she proceeded to tell him about her breathtaking trip across the world where she quarrelled with goblins, made peace with rivalling vampire villages deep in the Amazon rainforest, and many more.

Brilliant Broom Boom, thought Gilderoy Lockhart, could work for a title of his next book. Then he crossed it off because it was silly and he would need to write the book to get a good idea what to call it first.

The more Miss Nowak spoke, the less Gilderoy could focus. Was it possible that someone actually did the things she'd done? Why would anyone do all of that? Gilderoy then remembered that not many people were in this memory-alteration business and went back to the lovely interview.

By the end of her journey, Nowak stopped speaking abruptly. ''I'd just like to say what an honour it is to meet a man that tangoed with a Basilisk and lived. How did that go?''

Gilderoy tried to recall his most recent book: Battling A Basilisk. He'd published it in 1995 after meeting a Greek man with stories too vivid to invent or recount. When he'd gone to obliviate the man, the other had stopped him and told him that he needn't do that. Something in the other's magic inspired submission and Lockhart had stopped his attempt, went home, written the book, and published it, never hearing from the man again.

''Thank you, Miss Nowak. It's an honour to be here! I'll tell you after we finish this.''

Nowak had not thought anything strange by the request and wrapped up the story in a few more sentences.

Just when she closed her mouth, Gilderoy flicked his wand and whispered 'obliviate'. He concentrated on her swirling thoughts and extracted everything that she had told him. He also made sure their correspondence also vanished. She would feel an emptiness, but since she was a loner to begin with, none of her friends would tell her that she was missing memories. Usually, Lockhart just obliviated a month or two from a person's memory, but he thought a year was manageable business. The worst that could happen was that the authorities would lock Nowak up in a hospital, but Gilderoy liked to think of himself as more skilled than to allow insanity to come from his wand.

Having finished his business, Gilderoy drained the cola, and left Nowak's place of residence. Draco Malfoy was with his family and would soon come back. He needed to figure out something exciting so he wouldn't grow too suspicious. Gilderoy would organise some brawl to stop and be hailed a hero in front of the boy. Might even tell him to participate.

Ha!

What a wonderful life Gilderoy Lockhart lived!


	8. I burn things? To cope?

Narcissa Malfoy was a Black. This meant that she would not be kept in the dark about anything, let alone the happenings in her home.

The Greengrass family had cancelled their weekly tea party and Narcissa was bored. When in such a dreadful state of being, she read about the migration pattern of mermaids. Sadly, books were tedious, too. No, what she needed most right now was a good piece of _gossip_.

Draco was off with Hermione and Theodore so not able to entertain her. Abraxas Malfoy was fighting healers in St. Mungo's and making threats about going to a muggle hospital to see what they offered as treatment. Luckily, Minerva was roped into going with him. Somehow that friendship was odder than the one he'd had with the Lord Voldemort.

She ought to talk to Lucius. He had no political campaigns to run, and it was his job as her husband to be attentive.

Narcissa checked his favourite spots in the garden, only to find a muster of peacocks and peahens and realised they'd banished Lucius out of it. Poor husband, couldn't even win against magical birds. Among them all, a white peacock raised its head pointedly at Narcissa.

''Have you seen Lucius?''

It looked towards Malfoy Manor.

''Thank you,'' Narcissa said. The peacock cawed.

She searched their room and then went to his study. Not a crumb trail in sight.

Finally, more out of luck than anything, Narcissa found Lucius and three rather _specifically_ marked gentlemen in the cellar, hiding. From her?

She saw their vibrantly coloured marks and pressed her lips together.

From _Abraxas_.

"Gentlemen, am I interrupting a boy's club?"

Thoros Nott drank wine ardently and swayed the glass in his hand through the air like one would a lighter at a rock concert. She knew this because Sirius had once explained the structure of such an event in exhausting detail.

"Narcissaaa!"

"Lord Nott." Narcissa inclined her head as a greeting.

"We're fucked, Narcissa! We're bloody _fucked_!"

Igor Karkaroff was seated next to a seriously severe seeming Severus Snape

"Igor, Severus."

"Hello, Narcissa."

"Is this a Death Eater anonymous?" she questioned, lips curled upward. Oh, how she enjoyed watching people squirm. Especially her husband, who just had to hold a secret meeting while she was supposed to be out of the manor.

"What are we going to do?" Igor asked. He rarely came to England for any sort of business that wasn't strictly Durmstrang related.

Severus Snape shrugged. "Wait."

"Care to fill me in, husband?"

"Lucius, didn't tell you?" Igor looked at Lucius strangely. "Narcissa is best for telling and you did not? Much better than us."

Snape nodded. "Definitely. I needn't know of the Dark Lord's return."

"I was content with living in blissful ignorance, Lucius..." Thoros blubbered incoherently then. The only words made out were: Abraxas, bad choices, and a painful _WHY._

Igor took the news better. He took out his wand, aimed it at his arm, and politely asked. "Does anyone know a good severing charm? Can't be asked to serve if my arm is gone. Can't be found without the mark."

"I thought you all wanted to be in his service?" Narcissa found this question enjoyable to ask. The Blacks had never liked the Dark Lord, so she never fell into the whole mania and cult surrounding the man she called a secondary father-in-law.

"He is insane!" Thoros shouted before everyone else could get a chance.

"Not to mention that pureblood idealism is not viable anymore. Not in the world we live in." Lucius explained, near a wail. "We're almost equal now!"

"Mhm. Dreadful business." Snape said sarcastically.

Thoros Nott continued his woes. "Abraxas goaded me into joining that wretched study club. I sold my soul to the devil for NEWT tutoring!"

"Did you pass?" Narcissa leaned on the doorframe to the cellar, blocking their exit.

"I aced them, but that is _beside_ the point."

Narcissa accioed the man's drink into her own hand, vanishing it. She fluttered her gaze to her omitting husband and gave him a saccharine smile, dripping with poison.

Igor muttered something about having finally learned to live in peace. He did not miss war, nor did he want it.

Snape locked eyes with Narcissa and asked her if she had anything in mind for how to deal with this.

"We inform specific people who can help contain this. It's the only way we can earn safety."

"I'd rather die than tell Dumbledore anything." Igor sneered viciously at the man's name.

"I'll tell him." Spy Snape sneakily said.

"For the time being, let's keep this between us." Lucius asked Severus, who acquiesced.

Igor put away his wand and grasped at his hair, tugging hard. "I don't need this stress and uncertainty! He promised to kill my dogs when he came back from the Potter family!"

"The borzoi pups? Katyusha and Anastasia?" Lucius asked, all sympathy now. He placed a comforting hand on Igor Karkaroff's shoulder.

"Yes!"

"THAT MONSTER!" Thoros Nott exclaimed and flung his arm right out, nearly hitting Snape. He swung again.

Snort-stifling Severus Snape said, slowly, ''Sir, seriously, stop swinging.''*

Narcissa fired a warning shot at the ceiling with her wand to quiet the bumbling gaggle of murderous Death Eaters.

"Out of my house, thank you. My husband and I must have words."

Thoros grasped at Severus Snape and told him he needed someone to side along apparate with. ''The world is upside down, Severus.''

''Ah, that would be the wine.'' Severus locked arms with Thoros and apparated them, having always had the power to come and go from the Malfoy wards. Consequence of Abraxas Malfoy liking you.

Igor left through the main entrance and apparated once the wards ceased their hold.

Husband and wife stared into each other's eyes. They had travelled to their room, wary of Abraxas Malfoy's return from the healers.

The husband looked away first and told her everything.

Narcissa listened to his story, becoming paler as the minutes ticked by. She flopped down on their bed with wide, frightened eyes and cursed. Lucius's beautiful flower never cursed, not even when she'd gone through labour with Draco, with Antoinette and Lucius Malfoy by her side cursing on her behalf. ''Cissa?''

''We _must_ tell your father.'' Narcissa said the one thing Lucius had hoped with all his might she would not say. He was convinced if those two crossed wands that Abraxas would bring his estranged lover back into their home. His mother had had no problem with letting her husband parade around with his beau, but Lucius was a politician! He couldn't afford the world to know his father was ( _still_ ) bosom buddies with the Dark Lord. Not in this day and age!

''That isn't wise,'' Lucius tried.

''Who cares about _wise_ , Lucius!'' Narcissa stood and then, in a quiet voice, continued spilling her thoughts, all whilst wringing her hands together in a loop, ''Your father must know. If we go to Dumbledore with this before telling Abraxas, we will both bear the brunt of his temper. He will know what to do. They were lovers once.''

''He literally _poisoned_ my father.''

''If your father hadn't attacked Nobby Leach in such a manner the war could have been avoided! Neither is without blame.''

''He did it to strengthen the Malfoy name and promote pureblood ideals!'' Lucius justified a dying man's cause.

''He did it,'' Narcissa got in her husband's face and leaned towards his ear to whisper, ''all for his avarice. The war destroyed the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black,'' seethed now so Lucius understood out of the Malfoys she only loved _her_ family. ''My family died off and amidst all of that the Malfoy name grew and grew until it took its place at the top, sliding off centuries of my family's rule.''

A pregnant pause grew between them.

''Your father must know first.'' Narcissa said plainly. ''He can control that monster. I will not have our son caught in a war.''

''If we're telling anyone, it has to be _Dumbledore_.'' Lucius said firmly to his wife, willing her to agree with him. ''Even if we have not got on, he is the only one capable of reigning them _both_ in if need be.''

''If you tell Dumbledore, your father will disown you. Don't think he won't.'' She threatened.

''Cissa, my father has always chosen _him_ over his family.'' Lucius confessed, hiding bitterness behind drawls.

''Your father was just distant.'' Narcissa waved his whinging away and dismissed him.

 _''He_ worried more for my safety in the war than my own father had.'' Lucius remembered how many times the Dark Lord had sent him away from the thick of battle or had told Bellatrix to keep him safe.

''I think that had something to do with your father not wanting to have a new wife and a baby to deal with.''

Lucius massaged his forehead and cried out. ''What should we do, Cissa?''

''Tell Abraxas.''

''How can you trust him?''

''Husband dear,'' she kissed him and said quickly, ''he knows the Dark Lord better than anyone. Your father may preach that he will forgive and forget him. But love hurts. What the Dark Lord did to your father is not something he will forgive so easily. At the very least, he _himself_ might tell Dumbledore. Love may be blind, but separation clears one's mind. As the saying goes: it is easy to forgive the _dead_.''

''I doubt that.''

''Do you want your father to love you or not?'' Narcissa snapped at her husband. She knew each family had problems and she had resigned herself to those of dramatic Malfoys.

''I don't if it means I may go to Azkaban for harbouring the Dark Lord!''

''Lucius,'' exasperation shone through her words, ''go talk to whomever you like.''

* * *

Gilderoy Lockhart was a genius, first, and then a sexy devil. His apprentice always scowled and bemoaned his being so unutilized. Well, Lockhart rubbed his hands together like a fly, still thrilled at having more material to use for his books. Siphoning away ideas from creative and bold people made him in turn very creative and bold. Oh _yes._

Gilderoy Lockhart had a brilliant plan!

He went to a magic theatre, rounded up some wizard actors, paid them a hefty sum of money to play ruffians, and then sent them to Draco Malfoy. If his superstar wanted to feel like an actual star, ha! He needn't want for any longer. Gilderoy would make his dreams come true and even insert a small blurb in his next novel to appease his ghostwriting apprentice.

Ha-ha! Life was good for one and only Gilderoy Lockhart!

Draco Malfoy sent stupefies, pulled up protego shields, and fought valiantly and naturally! Because this was all fiction, he won spectacularly against five wizards. If that wasn't an ego boost, Gilderoy didn't know what was.

''Mister Lockhart, I fought down five criminally deranged Slavs!'' Draco had exclaimed, a look of sheer elation on his British face.

Gilderoy had snapped his fingers and winked at his apprentice. ''See, Draco, when you're with me, danger seems to find you without you ever needing to search it out. We shall forever remember this July day as the day my apprentice turned into a proper hero!''

Finally having satisfied his apprentice, Gilderoy told Draco that he should write his next big novel. So Draco obediently sat down at a typewriter and listened intently as Gilderoy dictated. ''It was a stormy night when I entered the vampire infested pub!''

* * *

Before the final match in the Quidditch World Cup, Hermione stayed at Malfoy Manor.She even spoke with Draco often about things and admitted that she _really_ liked Viktor Krum.

''It's not fair.'' Draco Malfoy had whinged. ''Why does he like _you_? You're nothing special, Hermione.''

Hermione had punched her friend hard in the shoulder, hissed that she had character and wasn't a tool like he was.

Anyway, on the last day of the Cup, Viktor had come up to Hermione and invited her over for dinner with his team. They were going to a gala. Hermione had blushed and stammered out a hurried 'I would love to!'

''I have shit all to wear.'' Hermione confided. ''Help me.'' She grabbed Draco's wrist tightly and poured out all of her desperation into the plea.

''I hope you won't dress like a librarian,'' Draco teased and pushed Hermione's buttons. ''Nobody likes a know-it-all.''

''That's where you're wrong, Malfoy, Viktor likes know-it-alls.''

''Swot.''

''Twat.''

* * *

Narcissa, uncharacteristically vigil around Abraxas Malfoy and keen to avoid eye-contact, had handed over some magically enchanted dress she hadn't worn in decades to Hermione and said she could borrow it. ''Or better yet, keep it. I couldn't care less for it. My aunt Walburga gifted it to me for my wedding.''

It was an elegant, silver dress and Hermione didn't really know what to say to the fact that she was wearing a Slytherin colour. ''Thank you, Mrs. Malfoy.''

''Lady, dear.''

''I'm more of a proletariat, thanks.'' Hermione answered back and spun in front of the mirror, giddy. Narcissa and Draco gave her their approval, more than ever showing their resemblance.

Abraxas had deadpanned, "You look better in periwinkle, Hermione."

"Mr. Abraxas, I needn't your negativity in my life now." Hermione had curtly replied, magic lashing out. He dodged it and when glancing into Hermione's eyes he noticed tall occlumency shields hiding something. Chalking it up as the girl's attempt at romantic privacy he backed off, but not before complimenting her shields. They did look sturdy for a beginner.

''Thanks, my mentor taught me.'' Hermione blushed at the compliment, lapping it up with pride.

''It's very good. The technique is familiar. My friend Tom used to pull up similar shields.''

The portrait of Antoinette Malfoy snorted. She was mounted on a wall facing Narcissa's dress room on the third floor of the Manor in the west wing. Lucius had insisted Malfoy Manor not be without his mother. ''She deserves to be a part of MY home, father.''

''Be silent, wife. I don't snort when you bring up that spinster.'' Abraxas completely forgot about Hermione and her particular mind in favour of snipping at his late wife's portrait.

''Lilith Selwyn is incomparable to that mess of yours.'' Antoinette Malfoy laughed. She was a terrifyingly beautiful woman, dressed in a black robe that cut extremely well for her figure. Her brown hair was tied up in a bun held up by magic and black roses. The makeup she had worn for the painting was impeccable, but the smile on her face was deviant.

''Don't force my hand. I will place you in the dusty attic if you do." Abraxas threatened.

''HA!'' Antoinette Malfoy laughed and clapped her hands once. ''Oh, husband, aren't you lovely. Still pinning after ghosts?''

AbraxasMalfoy clutched onto his wand and smiled forcefully.

Narcissa led Draco and her away from the two elder Malfoys. It didn't look like a marriage made out of love.

''It was an arranged marriage,'' Draco explained.

''Oh, that's _barbaric_!'' Hermione exclaimed.

''It worked out in the end when they both realised their preferences.'' Narcissa muttered under her breath, not being heard by the teenagers.

* * *

The gala itself wasn't nearly as interesting as it was dancing with Viktor. The music swayed them slowly. They spoke and giggled. He told jokes half translated in English and then explained to her the Bulgarian bits, apologising that he didn't know what to talk about.

''Viktor, this is fine!'' Hermione had laughed and allowed him to twirl her to a table to sit down and unwind. The heels she'd worn were comfortable, but quickly tired untrained feet.

''Hermione, I know we have wrote letters, but to see you and listen to you is…'' Viktor paused to think of a word at the tip of his tongue. Hermione waited with a smile pushing up her face to reveal her dimples. ''Magic, is a good word. I cannot think of any better. When I see your smile, it is the same to me when I got my wand for first time. You are magic, Hermione.''

A blush crept up on Hermione as she grasped his hand and whispered so dearly, so affectionately, so full of _feeling_ this man simply drew out of her, ''Viktor, I feel the same way about you.''

He kissed her then, gently, easing her into the motion, allowing her a chance to back out. Hermione, bold and brave Gryffindor girl, had kissed him back proudly, enjoying him, and loving being with him.

''When you finish apprenticeship,'' Viktor offered her and she loved how he never stifled her like Ron, never undermined her or took her for granted or only used her for homework, ''when you are not busy with apprenticeship, I would like you to come to Bulgaria, please.''

''Yes, Viktor.'' Hermione promised him and pulled him out on the dance floor for another waltz.

Tomorrow, she would return to Montenegro and resume her apprenticeship, but tonight wasn't about knowledge or learning.

* * *

The world was a quiet place when one lived in isolation.

That was Montgomery Goldsmith's life up until 1991, when he got back a snake-like body and a landlady oddly fascinated by his mere existence. ZorkaMrvaljević force-fed him articles from newspapers and told him what was happening in the world. In 1998, she continued her civic duty.

Her sweaty hands crumpled the Daily Prophet as she handed over the newspaper to her tenant (that mostly paid in knowledge, rather than money, because academics didn't pay much, especially not when the man had put all of his papers on hold to teach Hermione).

''I warn you...it is bad.'' Zorka said and clasped her hands together behind her back, inching away from the ticking time bomb.

Montgomery Goldsmith had barely finished his morning tea when he'd been attacked with information he couldn't care less for. He narrowed his crimson eyes, hoping that it would help him focus his vision.

In bold, capital letters the headline read:

MALAWI WINS QUIDDITCH WORLD CUP

''Zorka, why did you wake me up for this?'' Montgomery wondered, bed hair and grogginess galore.

Zorka advised him to read another story they'd deemed important and first page worthy. There were three and she knew that the outcome of him finding out certain information would tip him over.

Montgomery obliged. His crimson gaze perused the page some more until it landed on an alliteration he didn't think was very professional for a country-owned newspaper.

BRITISH BLOKE BECOMES BILLIONAIRE

The photograph of Abraxas Malfoy twirling his cane while wearing a pair of spiffy sunglasses came into view. He stopped to slide down his branded sunglasses and wink into the camera, tantalizing readers all across the world.

''I'm not at all surprised, given how he always does arithmancy equations before investing in something,'' Montgomery whispered and skimmed the article.

How was he going to spend this money, reporter Rita Skeeter asked (Montgomery wondered if the Daily Prophet had anyone else on staff.)

Next to the answer was another photograph of Abraxas Malfoy, this one smiling widely and without glasses (they'd been pushed on his head to keep his hair out of his face). The lines around his smile were forced, as if keeping that smile combated reverberating pain. The sum of his answer was that Abraxas Malfoy was an altruist and that he was going to give a large sum of the money to charity. His eyes, however, said that it was solely for tax reasons. Tom knew him well enough to know the man didn't care for the underprivileged unless they proved of use.

''Why does it say British bloke? Shouldn't it be British family or something?'' Zorka interjected softly, reading over Monty's shoulder.

''Abraxas Malfoy is still Lord Malfoy so it's his money until he wills it to Lucius, Draco, or all to his magical familiars.''

''Wow, what an ass.''

''He grows on you.'' Tom Riddle defended. He still didn't know how to feel about Abraxas. On one hand, perhaps his decision to poison him had been a product of an unstable, stressed mind. On the other, however, it was poetic justice and he would stand by his decision.

Voldemort read on.

How much money had Abraxas spent to have this much space be given to his interview, he wondered. Probably a lot, but money had never been an issue for the blond. Oh, wow. No, apparently the Daily Prophet was his now, or so the interview hinted at. No wonder they put him on the first page. That narcissist.

The last question caused his fingers to spark and the newspaper caught fire.

_Any new ventures for you?_

_Teaching. I have been offered the **Defence Against the Dark Arts** position at Hogwarts. I find it humbling and hope to help the youth of magical Britain achieve more than the past generations. It is our duty as elders to transfer knowledge._

Tom Riddle hissed loudly in retribution as he tossed the newspaper to Zorka. She deftly caught and put it out before the surroundings got mowed down in a blaze of anger.

The lights above them burst. Zorka covered her head from the falling material with the paper and wondered why, after knowing Montgomery for years and seeing him at his worst, why show such uncontrollable anger?

''He did not deserve the modified Dragon Pox!''

Zorka's black eyes popped open.

Without another word the old wizard left the cabin and went into the forest, seething. Nagini noticed her friend's distress and slithered after him.

Zorka stayed. Monty and she had returned to Montenegro before the Quidditch Cup ended, all under the ruse of there being some unattended business with the burek shop Zorka's mother ran. Hermione had stayed and promised to come back when the Cup ended. Zorka elected to meet her at the portkey point.

She shrunk the Daily Prophet, stuffed it into her T-shirt's breast pocket, and disapparated. She had a feeling that Montgomery hadn't seen what she'd wanted him to see.

* * *

It was a July morning and Hermione Granger sat on a couch, squeezed between her mother and father. She listened keenly to their story about Australia and how amazing it would be to go there.

''Why the sudden fascination, mum?'' Hermione asked Dr. Granger, who simply smiled and said that they'd always loved the place. This was news to Hermione, but she didn't want to appear ignorant of her family's interests.

''Hell, honey, we might even go there permanently. Australia needs dentists, too.'' Dr. Granger said and gave his daughter a wide dentist approved smile.

''I think you two are getting a bit into this too quickly?''

''No, sweetie, it's just that you're all grown up and don't need us as much as you did before. You already don't live with us!'' Hermione's mother merrily exclaimed. ''We're so happy to have an independent daughter. Your letters are always a joy to read, but it comes a time in every parents' life when they just want to do something new and exciting!'

''Moving to Australia is new and exciting?'' Hermione couldn't see the appeal. It was Australia. What was so good about it? Sure, she would respect her parents' decision and come and visit them, but she liked England. ''Where will you get the money for all of this?''

''We plan on selling the house, along with our dentist firm!''

''You're going to sell my childhood!?'' Deep down inside, she knew she was being unreasonable, but really. It was like they'd forgotten these things had sentimental value to her.

''Don't be so dramatic, dear.''

How could she not be when her role models were Montgomery Goldsmith and AbraxasMalfoy?

''I cannot believe this!'' Hermione felt so attacked in that very moment.

She understood that family forced you to compromise. It hurt, nonetheless.

''We love you, Hermione.'' Her father said and her mother nodded. Hermione didn't doubt that.

''I love you, too,'' she whispered. ''Can't you think a bit more on this?''

''Dear, we've had this idea for months!'' Dr. Granger merrily filled in. Dr. Granger nodded in accordance to his wife's words.

She knew that her parents had gone through a lot with her being a witch. If Australia made them happy ...then Hermione wouldn't cause any more fuss. Resigned, Hermione slumped her shoulders and said, ''I guess if you're sure…'' ''We're sure.'' Her father said and hugged Hermione.

''Also, dear, do take Crookshanks with you.'' Her mother gestured to the monstrous cat nibbling on a TV cable, his face scrunched up hideously as he continued.

Hermione 'aww'd' at her cat and scooped him up. She transfigured a napkin from the kitchen table into a pet carrier to place Crookshanks in, bid her parents well, and disapparated.

* * *

Lucius and Narcissa looked at each other and then back to the letter they'd drafted.

''This is madness,'' Narcissa whispered, still wanting to keep this titbit of information in the family.

''I would take this madness to the one back in the seventies, my love.'' Then Lucius played dirty and said, ''Do you want our son to be caught up in whatever scheme _he_ might make up?''

''Send the letter, then, and damn us all.'' Narcissa gave him leave and Lucius did as bid.

* * *

''Why the hissy fit?'' Nagini hissed.

Lord Voldemort paced through the forest and controlled his magic from causing any more outbursts. Black treetops above them hid the sunlight, save for a few patches. His crimson eyes glowed.

''For the past two hundred years, the Defence position has only ever been held by a pureblood.'' Voldemort hissed in parseltongue. It was the only language he used honestly. To snakes, he had never lied.

"Your point?"

"I don't understand why I am still bitter about not getting that teaching post when I was primed to fail from the _start_.'' he sneered, his magic buzzing like electric wire around himself. It shrouded him in a cloak of disappointment. ''God, I was so inexperienced. After my unfair rejection, I asked around. Merrythought told me that interviewing wasn't usually done. The school contacts you if they're interested and you say yes and THAT'S IT!''

''Meaning?''

''It was another one of Dumbledore's mind games and hurdles to watch me play and jump through, no doubt to fill his need to see me humiliated!" He sat down on the grass and beckoned over Nagini. She curled around him, offering comfort. His magic had never hurt her.

''Hogwarts was mine.'' He spoke softly now. Nagini hissed and, if it were any other, would have nuzzled against him. ''I was supposed to teach. _Me_. Nobody else. I jinxed the post, then. Was it a level-headed decision, Nagini? No. It was poorly thought out. Lord Voldemort had never been one for level thinking, really. From this distance I see that that was just some persona I made to help me manage.'' then he admitted, ''I was hurt! Emotionally devastated. Fuck, Nagini, I would have stayed if they'd cut my pay in half. That cantankerous Hufflepuff Burke offered me a job and what else did I have going for me? The ministry wasn't hiring. Dumbledore was a fucking omnipotent war hero that barred me from doors and opportunities!''

Nagini was trying not to fall asleep. The calming spells inside her always made her drowsy. They calmed whoever was touching her, yes, but she was but a humble being. Not fit to play therapist to a wizard who would benefit with having professional help.

His voice fell into a murky, dark substance that reminded of quicksand made of tar, ''Then Abraxas told me I was better off not teaching. That he'd rather _die_ than work as a professor for that trash salary.''

''Humans change.''

''Yes, they _do_ change. For the first half of our Hogwarts education, he delighted in calling me slurs with Walburga Black and, _only when my heritage was revealed_ , did lordly and pure of blood Lord Malfoy gift me his affection!'' He stood up and shook off Nagini. Sparks sizzled as he moved, leaving burnt grass in his wake. His glamour flickered on and off. Voldemort and Montgomery Goldsmith. On. Off.

''He visited me.'' Nagini whispered and this confession irked the faux lord even more because he whirled on his heel through the grass and the quiet, frightened bugs staring at them like two foreign beings.

''Repentance for his misdeeds!'' The scorned wizard raised his arms in the air like gesturing a vengeful God.

''He smells of death,'' Nagini described Abraxas.

''The idea was for him to die, not just smell like he's dying.''

''You hurt him badly.'' Nagini stated. She was above accusing and hurling insults.

Voldemort stopped pacing and bent down to give Nagini the cordial gesture of eye contact. ''Don't defend him."

"I'm not." Nagini hissed, peeved.

"What's more cruel, Nagini, pretending to love someone or not being able to?''

Wisely, because none of this drama was any of her business, Nagini hissed: ''I don't know.''

''Really now, love, _think_.'' Voldemort urged. ''He was offered and he said, 'Oh, I gladly accept this offer, Dumbledore. Thank you! Let's drink together on Friday nights and have a gay time remembering how we fucked Tom Riddle over!'''

Nagini thought and regarded her friend long before answering. ''I think you both got what you deserved and I'm done with this conversation.'' And then, having said her piece, she slithered away to go to a patch of sunny grass and curl up.

This left Montgomery Goldsmith in an embarrassing situation where he had to wonder when a snake had become more emotionally intelligent than him.

"I need to burn something." Lord Voldemort's need for destruction (which he realised right after the fourth horcrux was created) resurfaced and he headed back for the cabin. Entering his room, he looked away from the draped American flag and gave a long measured look to the paintings lined on a wall Zorka had told him needed some decor.

''Zorka, fuck your paintings.''

* * *

Hermione Granger was not afforded reprieve upon landing in familiar Balkan soil. Zorka and Zorka's mother greeted her with food the witch knew better than to try and decline. Eating the proffered burek and drinking some yoghurt, Zorka mentioned that Montgomery was in a bad mood and should not be addressed for a while.

Zorka held Crookshanks and cooed at him fondly. "Mic micmic. Ooh ljepoto mala. Uh uh." Then, sudden and piercing realisation: "Oh fuck. Montgomery has a familiar again. We best first find him to let him know you have a cat. Don't want this little guy getting swallowed up by a bored snake."

"The snakes are back?" Hermione wrinkled her nose.

"Snake. Singular this time."

Hermione groaned. "He's already a snake man, does he _need_ more?"

Crookshanks meowed ignorantly of the situation. Zorka found it the greatest noise on the planet and tuned Hermione out so she could pay more attention to the orange cat.

Upon apparating to the cabin in the snake infested forest, Hermione immediately spotted her mentor, glamourless, with a long snake staring at him in such a way most cats stared at you condescendingly.

There was a large bonfire of sorts being kindled with paintings.

"Monty, what are you using to kindle that fire?!" Zorka first found her voice.

"Remember back in 1994 when you decided to be an artist and you found your niche in painting old men you found attractive?''

Hermione looked at Zorka in a very judgy way.

''Sjećam se, da.'' Zorka answered affirmatively, trying not to die of shame.

''Yeah, and then when your brother Marko made fun of you because their noses were all crooked you cried and told me to take them. You asked for reassurance. I told you that they weren't all that bad. _Well_.'' Montgomery Goldsmith gestured his bonfire. ''They were actually really terrible.''

A sudden, angry sizzle erupted from the fire as the life out of the painted figures disappeared. Zorka pursed her lips and watched her creations die.

A hiss sounded. Nagini and Monty spoke to each other and at the end the wizard exclaimed, gesturing Hermione and then the fire. "Nagini wants to see the cat burn. Bring forth your sacrifice, pupil-mine."

"It's her familiar," Zorka explained because Hermione clutched onto her cat like for dear life.

"Fair enough. We'll burn something else then. Zorka, do you have a boat?"

"My family has lived in Kotor for three generations. _Of course_ I have a boat."

"Hermione!" Montgomery Goldsmith shouted now, beads of sweat pooling and sliding down his face. "I'm going to teach you fiendfyre. Let's go. Drive us, Zorka! I want nothing but water around us."

"The fire, Monty. Put it out." Monty remembered himself and extinguished the fire with a simple wave of his hand. "Thank you. It's called Montenegro, not Monte is on fire. _Crna_ Gora not Izgorela Gora."

"Oh, hush." Montgomery admonished in a British accent.

"My British seems to be rubbing off on you, sir." Hermione snickered.

Montgomery shrugged and said that he, being an American, allowed _her_ to have the illusion she was powerful enough to have anything rub off on him. "Honestly, you brits."

Hermione failed not to roll her eyes.

Zorka, Montenegrin and severely underpaid for this charity case on her hands, just mutely watched and followed.

* * *

As they got in the rather good looking, not easily sinkable boat, Zorka handed the burnt newspaper to Monty and pointed him the story she wanted him to read in the first place. She hadn't known the Abraxas article would have rattled him so.

In a small, _very_ unnoticeable paragraph lay the fact that someone (Yaxley) had shot at Harry Potter, hit him (like Lord Voldemort had back in 1981), but the Boy Who Lived had lived once more. Of course in the article they said that it was a firework spell that had been flung at him - the real truth was probably kept under wraps, contained to a small number. Potter had been caught from falling to his death by the Italian Seeker, tended to by St. Mungo doctors all until the end of the Quidditch World Cup.

Before Hermione could peer at the newspaper Tom Riddle snatched it roughly from Zorka's hands, ignited it, and threw it in the air. The fire ate quickly at the paper and transformed into a small dragon to fly around the boat.

''There are three pillars to casting fiendfyre correctly.'' Teacher Tom Riddle spoke up. Hermione looked in awe of the detailed dragon swirling above the sea. Upon contact with the water, no part of it evaporated, simply passed through the liquid like it was air.

Zorka had taken them outside of Kotor bay, close to Herceg Novi’s neighbourhood Igalo. Shore was three kilometres away. The sun above them scorched. Lulling waves rocked the boat gently. To protect the Statute of Secrecy, the three magicals set up wards.

Tom Riddle continued his practical lesson, guiding Hermione with her wand movement and incantation. Upon mastering it, he moved on towards Zorka to tell her how to attempt it wandlessly as the Montenegrin witch had never used a wand in her life.

''People will tell you that anger isn't welcome when casting fiendfyre.''

Hermione nodded and was just about to say that made sense when Montgomery Goldsmith deadpanned. ''These people have probably never cast fiendfyre in their fucking life, but rather a powerful incendio they passed off as such.''

Zorka curled her lips in a benign, bemused smile. From her fingertips lit small sparks, but nothing more. Hermione's wand point had smoke sputtering out of it.

* * *

Galatea Merrythought had explained the magic best. Tom Riddle had been a seventh year student stressing about NEWTs when their Defence professor had decided to teach something that wasn't going to be tested, to bring life back into the inferi-like class. ''Think of it as the patronus charm. Miss Black, stop revising Herbology in my class. I _will_ hex you.''

Walburga Black had stopped, knowing not to test the witch. AbraxasMalfoy snickered wickedly, drawing too much attention to himself. A lightning-fast flicker of the woman's wrist had cast the silencing charm on him. Nobby Leach threw Tom Riddle a look of derision for 'pureblood ponces' and Tom Riddle didn't return it. He’d aligned himself with the Sacred Twenty-Eight at that point.Turning to his partner, he told Abraxas to calm down and pay attention.

Nothing but careful breathing and the professor's voice filled the classroom.

‘’For a patronus you need 'happy' memories '' her Irish accent turned ironic and condescending as she watched the psychologically-absent class, ''which not everyone knows how to conjure. Though,'' the tip of her wand sparked with fire, foul and illuminating. The flame swirled into a sizzling woman, dancing.

The Slytherin-Ravenclaw class became alert, most of all Tom Riddle. ''Everyone knows anger.'' Then with a swift wave she extinguished the flame and, added in a melodic tone, ''All you have to do is to accept it and not let it run rampant.''

* * *

The dragon grew the more Tom Riddle spoke. His shoulders tensed. Merrythought had promised him he would succeed her.

The dragon deformed, growing feathers.

No one but Tom Riddle could have anticipated Albus Dumbledore deciding to be cruel.

Its wings elongated and the scales fell apart. The head formed into an avian's and the snout flipped into a beak.

Zorka whispered something and motioned her hands circularly, calling sea water to her hands. She kept track of the phoenix.

''What do I do if I can't control it?'' Hermione asked her mentor, thinking that if there was any danger he'd snuff the apparition out himself.

''Pillar one is viewing your emotions, accepting them, and not letting them consume you.''

The anger Voldemort felt, but did not show physically manifested in the phoenix continuing to build into an inferno. Its wingspan was ten metres and it didn't appear to be stopping in growth any time soon.

Hermione tilted her head away from her mentor's crimson eyes in order to view the fiendfyre beast he'd summoned. It circled above them, casting shadow on the boat and drenching them into an unbearable heat when compared to the one usually felt in July.

Zorka looked between Monty and the phoenix, cornered. Not knowing if it was still tied to her eerily calm friend or if it had grown into its own consciousness. Fiendfyre was all will over matter.

''Pillar number two: know how to cast aguamenti. Will it out. Normal water can't touch fiendfyre. Magical water can _only_ if its potency is stronger.''

Zorka flung seawater at the phoenix only to see its hollow eyes boring into her knowingly. She felt like prey, terrified. Muttered 'aguamenti' and tried again. All it did was lessen its wing span by a metre.

Lord Voldemort finally said that no one had ever managed to put his creations out, no matter their desperation.

* * *

A razing snake mowed down Order members. His Death Eaters charged. Aurors and Alastor Moody flung at him everything they knew, but Bellatrix Black emerged as his victorious second, shielding and killing. Lucius was dismissed before anything unsavoury could happen to him. Narcissa was yet to secure an heir, plus Antoinette had asked him to watch over her son.

The snake had been as long as a Hungarian Horntail and just as potent with its fiery breath.

Lord Voldemort remembered fainting from magical exertion after the snake had killed the last enemy. Bellatrix had caught him and side along disapparated. He had woken up in Malfoy Manor to a thrilled Abraxas Malfoy, telling him that negotiating peace was a fool's mistake.

''Mon chou, we can win!'' He said from the comfort of his fortified manor, having not tasted war once when that was all Lord Voldemort knew. It was always like this wasn't it? People that started wars never dealt with them. That's when the resentment began, really. Not in 1968, after Abraxas Malfoy had done the unthinkable and sent their magical world into disarray, cascading an already brittle world into politically divided riots that transformed gradually into war; but sometime in 1971 when he’d felt the man’s sheltered and inconsiderate view of the world irritate him one too many times for it to be endearing.

* * *

Hermione narrowed her eyes at the phoenix and wondered aloud, ''It's not really accurate, is it?''

Well, no. It wasn't.

Because he was thinking about the betrayal Abraxas Malfoy had dealt him. The way he had pushed and pushed and pushed people into doing things for him all under the guise of there being mutual benefit. When put into perspective, Abraxas Malfoy had managed to toe the fine line between light and dark. If one were to conduct a thorough check on his wand, they would know that it had never cast a single illegal curse. Yet when it came to utilising legal spells to do horrific things, Abraxas' creativity shone through.

The phoenix wings spread in a disproportionate way. Its tail feathers elongated.

''Je li onopaun?''

''Paun?''

''That thing with feathers, Hermione.''

''I don't know what you mean, all birds have feathers-''

''PEACOCK!'' Zorka exclaimed, remembering the word. A thirty metre long peacock flapped its wings and tilted its long necked head curiously at the small humans in its path.

Tom Riddle didn't know if he preferred the manifestation of all of his negative energy to be a phoenix or a peacock. Both seemed equally terrible and telling of his mental state. Too many horcruxes did this.

''Five was too many.'' Tom Riddle admitted, unaware that he'd made a sixth and destroyed it. In his vermillion eyes, orange fire reflected as it advanced towards them all in one mighty swoop.

Zorka yelled: ''Do you need any help?''

Tom Riddle woke up from the disappointed trance he was in and pushed Hermione off of the boat and into the water, protecting her to the best of his ability from the chaos his unstable mind had created. He counted that life debt finished between them with this.

Zorka needn't be pushed. She jumped overboard and cursed colourfully. Choosing herself over him. Smart of her.

The peacock twisted towards the sky. Upward, it flew.

Tom Riddle craned his neck to look at it – himself. This was him. Nothing more than his failures and inadequacies jumbled into one piece of nasty magic.

This was all Lord Voldemort, he corrected. All of his failure during the war. All of his anger and retribution when faced with Dumbledore's decision to reject him when both Hogwarts and Merrythought had chosen him.

The peacock made a circle so it got in a perfect position to stare eye to eye with the dark wizard.

The sun above them shone like only in midday. The smell of iodine filled the air, sprinkled with sparked heat fiendfyre accumulated.

He remained firmly planted on the boat.

The jinx he'd made would ensure Abraxas didn't stay longer than a year as professor and, with his health, the Slytherin thing to do would be to let the dying man be.

'' _I can't trust him and that's **fine**.''_ The immortal whispered in parseltongue, forcing himself to accept the words. _''Let him be Dumbledore's long-leashed pet. Let him play friends with the Order.''_

The peacock slowly melted into a smaller version of itself, reverting into a phoenix.

'' _I forfeited control over his actions when I forced that poison down his throat.''_

Scalding heat approached.

'' _The plan was never to cure him.''_ The plan was for Abraxas Malfoy to die and die he would.

The phoenix's head cracked when Zorka attacked it with a whip of water. Its intensity was diminishing the more Tom Riddle allowed to let his decade-long cramp of anger unravel.

He'd spent the last seventeen years of his life rebuilding himself piece of by piece, away from scrutiny and battle and expectations. Processing what had happened and trying to distance himself from his old life that was lived as others wished it. He had devised Montgomery Goldsmith as a way to finally teach and do what he'd always wanted to. Politics had never interested him. War had never interested him.

Montgomery Goldsmith was an attempt to destroy Lord Voldemort.

Because that particular side of him was a seed planted by hate and blood prejudice and abandonment.It had grown into a sapling first, when he'd killed for immortality and continued going down that path. Charming and smiling and resenting everyone around him, snuffing Tom Marvolo Riddle out in the process.

Dumbledore had been his first introduction to the wizarding world and he'd acted like a right cunt to an abused eleven year old child. Good work there, Dumbledore. Stellar characteristics to be found in an educator. Though his love for fire had kind of begun when Dumbledore burst his wardrobe into unforgiving flames.

A jagged line formed on the phoenix's head, not unlike Harry Potter's scar.

How hard was it to kill an idiot child?!

Tom Riddle inhaled and the flames burst, intense.

He exhaled and realised that that wasn't a thing worth thinking about, worth having power over him.

* * *

By 1981, Lord Voldemort had no time to think, only fight and kill, flinging himself deeper and deeper into the abyss the wretched civil war had thrown them all into. The civil war Nobby Leach, first muggleborn Minister for Magic, had tried to avoid and failed when Abraxas Malfoy had attacked him like a peacock high on cocaine.

The dissent was unparalleled.

The Order took up arms and the Death Eaters did plenty worse.

The war started in 1970, but only because the people willing to quell it were killed.

''War,'' Abraxas Malfoy had said from the safety of his heavily warded manor, ''is something those without means to fund themselves fear. _We_ are the winning side.'' He gestured to the lavish gringotts gold and generations of wealth while sitting on a chaise with a baby peahen on his lap.

Lucius was grim faced and marked, frightened out of his wits, looking for comfort in his indifferent father. He should have run with his mother to France. Voldemort would have let him, marked or no.

''It is time for purebloods to be treated with the respect they deserve! Not that insane farce of a mudblood minister. Ha! Aren't I right, monchou?''

Abraxas had never called Lord Voldemort by his title. The name may have been in bad taste, he agreed upon retrospect, but it was still the name he chose for himself. If Abraxas truly loved him he would have made the effort.

''We'll show them! They'll follow you, mon chou, to that I am certain. No one will care for your filthy blood if you're backed by purebloods like me and Thoros. Being a halfblood is _embarrassing_ , but not _nearly_ as your mudblood status during school!''

* * *

He'd fought that war for them and destroyed his sanity along the way. All for a fragment of power that shone like a mirage in a dessert he'd left Tom Riddle in.

Dumbledore wanted him dead because of his oddities. The pureblood society he had tried and somewhat integrated in had loathed his unclean blood. If it had not been for Abraxas Malfoy backing him every step of the way, the Knights of Walpurgis would not have even existed.

Would that have been such a horrible thing, now that he thought about it from such a large distance?

Did he hate orphan Tom Riddle so much that he would rather give his sanity away for self-destructive power? He'd fucking split his _soul_ so many times.

'' _Lord Voldemort is behind me. Everything that happened to me as him is behind me. I make my own decisions now.''_

It dissipated, the fiendfyre. Broke off into sections and fell apart in the sea, snuffing itself out because it was the will of its conjurer.

A snake, half of Nagini's length, fell from the sky and coiled around his leg. It didn't burn him. His magic never hurt him because he had always had an honest link with it.

It was a garden snake, the first ever snake he'd spoken to while in the orphanage. Mrs. Cole had killed it with a shovel, severed its head and then slapped him hard, telling him to go to his room without dinner.

Tom Marvolo Riddle had felt righteous anger then. Snakes had always liked him (the poskok was an outlier) He'd never understood picking on creatures that couldn't defend themselves properly. It was one of the reasons he'd never tattled on the children in the orphanage – he was better and stronger and magical and they, they were envious _nothings_.

The fiendfyre snake looked at him expectantly and Tom Marvolo Riddle waved it away gently, running his hand along its entire length. ''Aguamenti.''

It disappeared, drenched in water he'd summoned by magic and forced its will over the one keeping his anger manifested.

''Third pillar,'' Tom Riddle said, and felt no pull of Lord Voldemort or Montgomery Goldsmith, ''is to never forget the first pillar.''

Hermione and Zorka, both wet like rats, swam over to the boat. They shared a glance Tom Riddle was too busy to notice because he felt calm and clear and truly good about himself. Inhaling the smell of the sea, he said: ''Fiendfyre's dark magic my arse, this is the most therapeutic thing I've ever done for myself.''

Hermione deadpanned at Zorka who shrugged in the water.

''Alo,'' Zorka called out and Tom Riddle turned. ''Pull me up.''

''Me too.'' Hermione raised her arm.

Tom Riddle grasped them both with his hands and went to help them up with his magic when both women shouted, ''DEPRIMO!''

The invoked blast had Lord Voldemort pulled back into the water with Hermione and Zorka.


	9. Hogwarts Havoc

The Malfoy estate was dreamlike when one looked at it from afar. It was a stunning piece of property with a beautiful mansion that radiated class. Laudable gardens were surrounded by a looming forest, drenched in thick wards no one could leave unless given permission. Abraxas Malfoy had designed said wards around his home to let anyone in, but few people out. None of his family knew the exact reason for this, but it had come in handy during war.

In 1975, aurors had come to raid their home for dark artefacts. Moody and Prewett had stolen and overturned furniture and been menaces. They'd demeaned and called the patrician Malfoys many unsavoury things. True things, but unsavoury and insulting nonetheless.

Lucius, Abraxas remembered, had been on a Death Eater meeting. Antoinette had spent the seventies in France, as far away from battle as possible

So it had been left to youthful Narcissa and him to fill the large manor with noise and conversation. While the aurors rummaged through their home, the two aristocrats had gone outside to sit in the garden. Many peacocks cawed at Abraxas and nuzzled their heads into his hand for attention while he cooed at them in French.

''We're just supposed to let them humiliate us like this, Abraxas?'' Narcissa never called him Papa or Father, and Abraxas never wanted his daughter-in-law to do that.

''Narcissa, dear flower,'' he whispered, danger glinting in his silver eyes, all while petting a white peacock nestled close to him and his multi coloured brethren, ''don't be absurd. The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black lack subtlety. You demand and you rarely get what you want.'' His words sent a bolt of anger through her for she clutched her wand tightly, whether to use it on the nefarious arurors going over their stature with this stunt, or to defend her family from her father-in-law.

''You're a Malfoy now – watch and learn. We're the ones that wait out storms while everyone else dies braving them.''

Narcissa leaned back into her chaise and sipped her tea cleverly, mindful of any noise from the manor. The stress of war was not doing her any favours. Lucius could come back to her dead any day. Then there was the matter of her not being able to conceive. Her family fed her potions and urged her to hurry up and secure her place in her husband's family. Nobody would keep a pureblood wife that was barren.

Moody had emerged first from the manor and said that they'd confiscated a lot of Death Eater artefacts (vases and such that were very expensive and had come as wedding gifts, Abraxas allowed them to have them – he was sure Antoinette would not mind). Narcissa looked poised but underneath that facade lay a thundering tempest that couldn't wait to see these miscreants off.

She painted a Walburga Black picture, full of thorns that burned instead of stung.

Walburga had thrown an anti-love potion in Abraxas' face the last time they'd spoken and told him to stop being a blood traitor. Abraxas had taken immense joy in retorting: ''I'll be sure to keep you updated on my blood traitor symptoms in case you wish to try this medieval method on young Sirius. You know, that Gryffindor werewolf lover you call eldest son, scion and heir to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black?''

She had screamed, infuriated by him. Then pulled back. Clasped her open palm into a fist. And punched his teeth. Her magic lingered and they remained imperfect.

Abraxas smiled toothily at the aurors and stood from his chair easily, spry and full of bon vivre. They sneered when he'd shaken hands with them and wished them off.

''I hope we won't be seeing each other anymore, yes?'' the Malfoy patriarch said in such a tone of voice that left no room for argument.

Alas, Alastor Moody had decided to make room. ''Your cooperation was surprising for a family submerged in the dark arts,'' sneered then at Narcissa, who looked at him with disdain. ''But we will be coming back regularly to take more of these cursed objects you harbour.''

''No.'' Abraxas Malfoy said definitely. ''No, I do not think you will.''

''Are you going against Ministry orders, Malfoy?'' Prewett asked, more clumsily than when Moody spoke. He lacked the confidence madness brought the aged auror. Narcissa exchanged a look with Abraxas and he nodded. She moved closer to Prewett, her hand curiously close to her own wand.

Paranoid, Moody noticed. He brandished his wand on another's property without permission and prepared to attack the owner's daughter-in-law.

Abraxas smiled then, splitting his face. He took his wand out and waved it, silently tumbling the experienced auror on his back, pushed down by a force of magic seeping from Malfoy patriarch. The wards only strengthened his magic, making the hold unbreakable. Home terrain counted as places held magic just as much as people.

Narcissa quickly transfigured Prewett into a tea-cup she set on the table next to their tea set. Wizards still liked to underestimate witches. Sometimes it was annoying, but in most cases it had its perks.

Moody tried disapparating from the grounds, but the wards disallowed him.

''You have attacked an auror!'' Moody glared fiercely with his dark, mad eyes. ''This is a punishment fit for Azkaban!'' He'd filled half of Azkaban with Abraxas' friends and relatives.

''You won't take me to Azkaban, Moody.'' Abraxas mirthfully said, fighting down a giggle, and swirled his wand through slender fingers. ''You tried to attack first. I am in my full legal right.''

''What do you know of legal rights?''

''Sacred Twenty-Eight drafted laws and set them into motion. I am their descendant and _I_ uphold them in the way they saw fit.''

The Malfoy set a dragon-tail boot atop Moody's chest. The auror locked eyes with Abraxas' and gritted his teeth in a snarl. That mere boot cost more than whatever they paid the mad auror in a month.

''You come into my home to humiliate me, threaten my daughter with a wand I have not given you permission to take out, and then have the gall to speak about my going to Azkaban!'' The peacocks cawed as they felt a swirl of their master's magic suffocating the auror wizard beneath him. ''You overestimate my hospitality.''

Abraxas Malfoy levelled his wand on Alastor Moody's eye. He'd not liked how the man had stared at him and Narcissa as if they were beneath him for not kissing Dumbledore's arse. They were sacred twenty-eight and powerful. That _meant_ something.

''If you cast your spell you will most certainly become more acquainted with Dementors, Malfoy!'' Moody yelled. A small, frightened bubble burst from him.

''I'm allowed a warning spell, as long as it's legal.'' Abraxas stated cruelly, and with that, cast a knockback jinx, crushing the eyeball and sending a jolt of horrible pain through the impertinent auror. The proud man bit through his screams and drew blood.

''You've been warned.'' Casually, Malfoy retreated to Narcissa's side.

He finited the spell his daughter had cast and sent Prewett to collect his colleague and leave the Malfoy estate. They'd disapparated without taking with them the dark things they'd collected.

''You conducted yourself well,'' Abraxas praised Narcissa and went back to his seat to finish his tea. The peacocks had not once moved away from their master. Only if he had been harmed would they have moved to defend him.

''Thank you, Abraxas.''

So, yes, the Malfoy estate was a dream. However, when one got near and actually got to know its residents, the illusion cracked and from these cracks seeped ugly truth that monsters lived in nice homes and wore handsome skins.

* * *

Minerva McGonagall apparated to the Malfoy estate with Alastor Moody in tow. Both wore tartan robes and Abraxas Malfoy coughed up a storm at the sight of them dressed so patriotically. He had a distaste for anyone that fought for their country, causes, or ideals. Pureblood idealist, he was not. Not since his ailment. It had seemed absurd to cast away his nerves to mudbloods and squibs when in fact being angry siphoned his strength away from helping him heal.

''I would stand to greet you,'' Abraxas said from his patio chaise. The on duty healer handed him potions to drink and told him not to attempt to self-medicate again. The Malfoy looked at the dunce with the medical degree like the stupidest bludger-lusty fool one could ever see.

"You're dismissed."

The healer left.

Minerva and Alastor waited until Abraxas drank the foul smelling potions and threw up in his mouth.

''Minerva, you're always welcome in my home.'' Abraxas nodded for Minerva to sit and when Alastor pulled up a chair, the Malfoy added, ''Lovely to meet eye to eye,'' and then winked, pulling out an infuriated grumble from the mismatched auror. The electric blue eye scrutinized him, finally focusing on one target.

It was ridiculous how little he'd had to pay for his altercation with Moody to disappear.

Abraxas crossed his legs and leaned back in the chair a little bit, wondering what had brought this visit on.

''Harry Potter said some curious things.'' Moody snarled and Abraxas smiled at his discomfort, showing slightly crooked teeth.

''Oh, what has our little miracle auror said?'

To survive the killing curse once had half-arsed explanations about love and Tom Riddle's impulsiveness. To survive it a second time made for a pattern one needed to break. Whoever had tried to kill Harry Potter was either really stupid or not in the right state of mind.

''He mentioned a wizard that, just before the attack, pulled you away from the killing curse's range. Now, isn't that **strange**? Why did this man pull _you_ away specifically? There were more people around Potter. Miss McGonagall," Minerva pursed her lips in a tight frown when Moody's address held fondness, "was next to Potter for quite some time and no shot happened. Once you were cleared up – BAM!'' Alastor Moody's eye twirled as his good one widened for effect when he stood up from his chair, flinging it back by force. ''From eyewitnesses, the man knew you and you called him _Tom_! Like Tom Riddle, aka, You-Know-Who!''

Minerva stood up to calm the situation before it escalated. Abraxas didn't rise from his seat the entire time. He only impassively watched Alastor Moody lose his charged sprinted start, feeling dumb by his abrupt declaration. Honestly, insane people shouldn't roam about like this, Abraxas thought before sighing.

''I was drugged out of coherent thought on numbing spells. Ask Minerva.''

Minerva attested to it.

''I could have easily called _anyone_ Tom.'' Abraxas said and gestured Moody. ''Not you, though, you're too horrible to be Tom. Let me reiterate. I could have called anyone _gorgeous_ Tom.''

"I should make an inquiry with your healer to see why they condone you on any mind altering spells." Moody glared. "Your 'I'm drugged' excuse has become _repetitive_."

"Ministry approved numbing spells for patients like me are mandatory-"

"Was cocaine mandatory?" Moody deadpanned. "You spent 1968 high as a hippogriff."

"The ministry had not adopted any new laws about recreational usage. In most potions which were, mind you, _legal_ in 1968, cocaine powder was a crucial ingredient!"

"When consumed as a part of a potion. Not when it's snorted like some queer-"

A white peacock cawed and emerged from the forest nearby. It stumbled towards Moody at an uncomfortable proximity. If it weren't exuding dangerous magic as a warning, it would have been hilarious to watch.

"Careful now, auror." Abraxas smiled and patted his familiar. "I may be using my magic to keep me alive, but I am not powerless."

"Are you threatening a law enforcer?"

" _Yes_." Abraxas Malfoy said, unafraid. Untouchable. Peafowls took the white one's lead and from behind trees came to form a circle around their master.

"You'll slip, Malfoy, and when you do-"

"That is enough!" Minerva bellowed and stood between them both, shielding Abraxas from Moody's vengeful ire or protecting Moody from observant peafowls infused with their master's magic. They had surrounded the three of them.

Abraxas had yet to move, undeterred by the auror. That lack of reaction irritated men of action like Moody more than any foul word or example of violence.

"Alastor Moody." Abraxas said, cracks forming from his illness. Exhausting seeping through from the disgusting potions and dundering dolts he endured for the sake of his health. ''Why are you here?''

''The Department of Magical Law Enforcement has sent me to tell you that a questioning must take place. We're giving you a fair warning that if you don't meet with us on September 3rd,'' they picked a date they knew my whereabouts would not be in my wards, Abraxas grinned, ''we'll see it as admitting guilt and you'll be placed under arrest.''

"Goodness." Abraxas said at the brutal phrasing. Moody had not been taught faux politeness all Slytherins knew. "Should I be worried?"

Moody grinned then. It was a rabid animal's snarl. "If you like."

Abraxas let out a delighted chortle. He waved his hands in a specific way and the peacocks receded back into their forest.

Minerva sat down. Moody took her lead.

Abraxas clapped as if admiring a play. "I warn you, Alastor," smiled in a charming way that elicited fury, "I have a terrible habit of listening to my legal representative. She doesn't lose."

"Justice Triumphs."

"No, Moody. _Power_ does."

"I need to take you to Hogwarts." Minerva said before a brawl could begin.

"Oh, _must_ you diffuse, Minerva?"

"I bloody well must, since all men in my life act like children!"

* * *

Albus Dumbledore read a worrisome letter written in pretentious Malfoy swirls and loops. To see if he'd understood it correctly, he read it again. Then, once more, to see if he really grasped the nuance of each terrible sentence.

The letter read:

The Dark Lord is alive. Make him not be.

Albus Dumbledore read it again, willing the letters to rearrange into something more favourable.

"Oh, no thank you. Fighting one Dark Lord was enough for me."

Post haste he left his office in order to inform Harry, but then he spotted Minerva and Abraxas talking out in the corridor. One stood high and proud while the other leaned on a cane and tried to appear as mighty as he had before.

Harry was the prophesied child. Dumbledore thought and regarded Abraxas like one would a cheat sheet during an exam. But it had been a lover's invitation that had drawn Gellert into a trap.

"My dear boy!" Albus turned on his twinkles so as to blind people into trusting him as he moved towards the two professors.

"Dumbledore, refrain from calling me that..." came the glacial reply.

Minerva snorted. Abraxas elbowed her playfully and winked. "Remember when you snuck into the Slytherin 7th year party because you were dared?"

"I remember Walburga Black playing her hurdy-gurdy. She charmed it to be pocket-sized, didn't she?'' Abraxas nodded. ''Of course she did…''

"That was a brilliant sight, though I was alluding to the Dumbledore impersonation Tom Riddle had done while under polyjuice."

"Oh, Merlin…" Minerva remembered, clasped a hand over her head, and tried to forget. "Why was he _lisping_?"

"Poor man couldn't handle his firewhisky and slipped into parseltongue."

* * *

Montgomery Goldsmith realized very early on in his existence that pretending to be a tourist made foreign law-enforcement nicer to you. More indulgent, so to speak.

Apparently!

_Apparently!_

It was a bad idea, politically, to cast a potent fiendfyre curse near the Croatian border. As it was seen as a militaristic threat. A few hasty wizards had rounded them up, spoken only to Zorka, and had them detained.

Montgomery could have taken them, but fiendfyre was extremely taxing. Regardless, the way Zorka had given off an air of petulance put him at ease. She knew half of the Montenegrin auror department. Not that it was hard to know people in such a small country, but still!

Hermione explained the fiendfyre. Zorka translated. Montgomery had a growing disdain for people that didn't know English.

"We bombed Croatia in the war." Zorka mumbled to give context because Voldemort had spent the warren Balkan years out of the right state of mind. "They are careful now…"

The Montenegrin magical police were not nearly as segregated from their muggle counterparts as they were in England.

"Zorka, sprdaš li se sa mnom!" a not-auror said to Zorka, clearly exasperated. He wore a regular muggle uniform, but had bound them all with wandless magic. Montgomery would need to have words with people about this. A fucking country couldn't just not have wands. What kind of army was this? He'd thought Zorka was _eccentric_.

"How come none of you use wands?" Hermione beat him to the question. That curious minx of his.

"We no use-"

"Tito's politics. The president of Yugoslavia saw fit to not have us rely on such primitive and feeble conduits." Zorka cut off the disgraceful attempt at English, earning a glare from the man.

Taken aback, Hermione asked, "Wasn't Tito a _muggle_?"

"Yes." Both the officer and Zorka answered like it was the most ordinary thing in the world.

"Then what jurisdiction-"

"We **never** had a ministry for magic. Magic was never something to hide, just not to flaunt. Do magic, but don't make it too overt. Pass it off as illusion. Pass it off as God's gift." Zorka explained patiently, mostly because she noticed Monty's growing disbelief.

"...You elect a muggle to lead… then this same muggle just decides to ban wands and no one causes a fuss? And now 18 years since his death you all still practise his will… why?" Montgomery slipped up from his silence.

" _WELL_!" Zorka looked at the police officer who sheepishly grinned. "Those that disagreed were sent to a special island run by wizards and witches. My mother was a re-educator. The pay was good. She met her husband there. It wasn't nearly as terrifying."

"A, kako je Ilinka?" The officer asked amiably, suddenly off topic.

Zorka smiled. "Oh my mother's fine. How are the kids, Darko?"

Darko shrugged and exhaled painfully. "In puberty."

When did this interrogation turn into a social catch-up? thought Tom Riddle.

Zorka and Darko talked some more about unimportant things until a very familiar old woman smelling of bureks knocked down the door.

"Teta Ilinka!" Darko exclaimed. The fear was somehow expected, yet not, as Montgomery had never seen Zorka's mother in any state except pacified.

Ilinka smiled in that threatening kind of way that, from any other angle, seemed unthreatening.

Montgomery Goldsmith and Hermione Granger tried to piece together what was being said. Bulgarian was similar and Hermione utilised her scarce knowledge. Tom Riddle, who had spent the past seven years in the country, understood the gist of it. Zorka was explaining. Ilinka wasn't listening. Darko was trying to calm the two witches. Montgomery was being madly gestured and shouted names. Thankfully, no one slipped any Lords or Dark in there. Darko, noticing that the threat was unfounded and that it was really an accident, let them go with a slap on the wrist and told them if they wanted to stage any more attempts like this to take it to Italy's border. There was a similar incident in Albania decades ago.

After they'd all collected their belongings (Hermione's wand and Zorka's boat keys) Ilinka said, in most broken English she knew: ''When,'' took in a deep breath and pointed to Hermione, ''she,'' then made two little feet with her index and middle finger mimicking the motion of walking, ''go,'' pointed resolutely at Montgomery Goldsmith, American extraordinaire ''you,'' then made a v with her fingers to signify the number 2, ''too,'' clapped and pointed to the sky ''go.''

It was the greatest way anyone had ever told Tom Riddle to leave. He would need a wand to obliviate the woman (flickered his gaze to Hermione's), but for now he nodded and said: ''Da, da.'' in an insincere way

* * *

Draco Malfoy's fingers hurt from typing. They pulsated with pain. He bit back a whine. His mentor was satisfied when he'd typed out the entirety of his next book.

''DRAFT ONE, COMPLETE!'' Gilderoy Lockhart had shouted and taken a few days to revise it.

Draco rued the day he learned Gilderoy Lockhart was a fast reader. The revised stack of papers was thrown at Draco, who did not dodge in time and had to nurse an injury on top of all of his grief. ''Draco, my superstar! Draft two beckons!''

Arduous days later, Draco finished writing the second draft. They'd switched hotels to stay at a better one in Poland, close to Germany as that would be their next destination for the **MUSE** TO _STRIKE_ , as a token of Gidleroy's pride in how all of his machinations were going smoothly.

The revised second draft was thrown at Draco.

''DRACO!'' Lockhart stuck a heroic pose and exclaimed. ''Draft three awaits!''

Draco Malfoy cried. He'd never thought that writing was so hard.

By the time they'd reached draft eight, Draco was not only good at dodging stacks of paper, but he was also contemplating how much money his grandfather would have to pay to cover up Lockhart's murder.

Luckily, it didn't come to that. Gilderoy Lockhart was finally satisfied.

* * *

After the fiendfyre accident, Montgomery and Zorka joined their powers to take Hermione out on many field trips. They’d already gone to Budva, to see the two thousand and five hundred year old ancient city. Hermione even had a bit of a tan there, after she’d gone swimming on a beach named after a pirate who shipwrecked there. It had magical value, the salt water was charged with healing properties and that was why the pirate had survived enough to name the beach after himself. Montgomery didn’t just take her out on a beach, for goodness’ sake. He especially didn’t take them there so he could soak up in the water and warm up in the sun.

Later on, at Zorka’s insistence, they went to National Park Lovćen, to view its cultural beauty. And also to visit the Fairy of Kotor Bay that was situated beneath the mountain.

Though, sadly, that visit didn’t turn out well.

Hermione, Zorka, and Montgomery Goldsmith were trying to avoid getting killed by the infamous fairy.

It’d seemed like a fun idea to take Hermione up to see the culture and wild beauty of the country she would be living in for a year. Zorka, the local, had even said that the fairy was safe.

This was a strange encounter, thought Montgomery, as he’d read that this fairy was considered a benign entity. Someone (cough, not Zorka or Hermione, cough) must have angered it by its mere inhuman presence. Fairies were sticklers for dealing with only humans. And to them, being human meant having an entire soul.

Zorka ducked down to avoid the flurry of magic emanating from the fairy woman, dressed in traditional Montenegrin garb. She liked it because it had shiny golden trims. Fairies, when one got down to it, were just very big crows.

Hermione pivoted on her heel and ran out of the cave, shoving herself only behind a rock when fire shot from the fairy’s fingers. Her face was the colour of the stone of the mountains looming above the Bay of Kotor, but her eyes were a grey unlike anything Hermione had ever seen. Though, she squinted, they did remind her a tad of AbraxasMalfoy’s eyes. But his were much too hazed over to be properly compared to a real Fair Folk.

Montgomery Goldsmith may have realised a little too late that taking Hermione on a field trip was a _bad_ idea. He mentally crossed off similar lessons. Though, Zorka did vow to take them to Skadar Lake. It was their newest national park and had a lot of caves brimming with rare potion ingredients. Not to mention it had around 200 different species of birds there. Plus, she did promise that the food there was really good. Priganice, thou art the author’s favourite pastry.

‘’Get off of my land!’’ The fairy yelled at Montgomery Goldsmith. ‘’All of you are to leave and disband!’’

‘’We will.’’ Montgomery promised. But then, he spoke in parseltongue: _‘’Though, a question, kind lady of the bay – what is this about, really?’’_

She returned in a sibilant drawl just as he had begun, placing a hand to her hip and glaring: _‘’Trespasser, know, I owe you no explanation. You are an abomination when compared to all other creation. Soulless being, come to feast upon my magic to survive! I shall not give it to you so go someplace else to thrive!’’_

 _‘’Oh good.’’_ Montgomery Goldsmith noted that Zorka and Hermione had gone out of the cave, _‘’This is just about the horcruxes, then. And here I thought you’d maybe been told to attack me by someone.’’_

_‘’I take no orders from your kind. This is the only truth you will find.’’_

_‘’Of course, of course.’’_ Montgomery bowed, remembering his etiquette with dealing with the terrifying forces of magic which were the Fair Folk. _‘’Though, your own descendants are your kind. I was simply curious if any descendants of Armand Mal Foi may have said some things – or – oh I see I’ve struck a bit of a nerve. You’re in the Unseelie Court, aren’t you? No? Oh well, common mistake.’’_

_‘’Get off of my land before you find more ways of insulting me! You have until the count of three!’’_

Satisfied, Montgomery tipped his head in her direction, promised to leave, and sprinted out of the cave.

Zorka asked him what took him so long.

‘’A friend of mine who could benefit from taking me down a peg has fairy relations. I just made sure that there was no relation.’’

‘’Well, I could have told you that. We’re the only children of the fairy of the bay.’’

‘’I am no child of hers.’’

‘’No, suppose _you_ aren’t.’’

Zorka turned to Hermione and began leading her over a field, showing her rune imbedded rocks and explaining the benefit of having such things. ‘’Montenegro’s been in more wars than I’ve got years!’’ Zorka boasted.

Montgomery looked back into the fairy cave and saw that her grey eyes glowed fiercely as she moved a boulder to hide the entrance. He shuddered, ever so slightly, when she _hissed_.

* * *

Dumbledore inched towards Abraxas Malfoy during their first staff meetup of the year. It was held in the teacher's lounge.

Abraxas sat by the window with Minerva McGonagall and Severus Snape.

Sybill Trelawney was hiding from sight behind Rubeus Hagrid. Abraxas Malfoy smiled at her like a wolf did just before clamping its jaw around its prey's neck. She nearly screamed the glass windows broken.

* * *

1981, post fall of Lord Voldemort:

A very sick, very deformed Abraxas Malfoy waved about his wand and hunted down a newly appointed divination professor throughout Hogsmeade. ''I'LL MAKE IT QUICK, SEER GIRL!''

Moody had tried apprehending him, then, but Abraxas had weaseled out of it. At St. Mungo's, they'd found his illness out and said that a man under such a high fever could not be taken accountable for his actions.

Alastor Moody had decided that he would bring down Abraxas Malfoy, even if it was the last thing he did.

* * *

Filius Flitwick was pouring cider and handing over glasses.

Dumbledore found that his glass was missing. He transfigured his out of a speck of dust and dangled it expectantly. Flitwick poured him the last bit of the cider from the bottle and left Dumbledore to speak to Pomona Sprout about Hufflepuffs and how some of her NEWT level students were exemplary in charms.

Sinistra danced off with Vektor to the Weird Sisters album.

''I've never been to the teacher's lounge before.'' Abraxas took a sip.

Severus shrugged. ''It isn't special.''

''You grow used to it.'' Minerva admitted and looked out of the window, admiring the student-less view. They would be arriving in a few days.

With a sudden wand movement, the music came to a halt. Dumbledore raised his glass in the air and asked for attention. Half of the staff relinquished it to him, while the other looked at him, but didn't listen. Abraxas was among the first half while Severus was in the second.

''It is a pleasure to introduce to you our newest Defence Against the Dark Arts professor, Abraxas Malfoy.''

A pro forma clap. Hagrid seemed the most into it.

Abraxas whispered a small, flustered ''thank you.''

''Speech!'' Vektor shouted.

Sinistra elbowed her hard and said, ''Best not!''

''Be careful of the curse!'' Pomona Sprout warned.

Murmurs of agreement filled the room. Dumbledore couldn't get a word in as the teachers swarmed around Abraxas and began to ask him questions about how he was going to get rid of it, or if he was as temporary as all the others.

''I thought it was a jinx...why does everyone keep calling it a curse?'' Abraxas asked from his seat, craning his neck to look into the eyes of his coworkers.

''I have no doubt that in its earlier stage it was a jinx, but-'' Vektor started.

''Jinxes can't mutate into curses.'' Minerva said. Flitwick nodded in accord.

Severus fetched another bottle of cider and began pouring everyone a second round. When they discussed the Tom Riddle jinx, things began to heat up.

Dumbledore noticed that whenever he tried to get a word in, one of the professors would undercut him. Minerva and Hagrid finally let him talk. ''No one before had cast a jinx on Hogwarts and was allowed it by the castle wards. It is most curious how the ancient wards affect the magic of one so bitter and angry. Perchance there was a limit on its benign nature?''

''That implies that the jinx is out for DADA blood,'' Abraxas had laughed.

No one joined in.

''Haven't you heard, Abraxas?'' Sinistra topped off her drink and asked, her eyes wide and taking everything in.

''Your most recent predecessor died heinously. On Hogwarts grounds. He'd decided to fight the curse and stay on for another year.'' Severus explained with a half-hearted sneer.

''Oh my. I had heard he fell down the stairs from the seventh floor, but that was such a common death around here I didn't think on it anymore.'' Abraxas sipped his cider with haste unknown to man before.

''No, curse pushed him down.'' Flitwick said.

Abraxas looked for Minerva to see if they were just having fun at him for being the new staff member. She looked solemn.

* * *

''My mother has decided to let you stay on if you start paying rent.'' Zorka said, pale as the day Tom Riddle had killed for the first time. That relationship made him thrilled to be an orphan.

''With what fucking money?'' Montgomery Goldsmith eloquently asked.

''You must get some wages from your texts?'' Zorka pressed him, not willing to let him go so easily. ''I won't be able to entertain you as often. Mother says she can't run both my shop and the burek one...which is fair, but I thought I could milk her a bit more-''

''When _did_ you start speaking proper English?'' Tom Riddle asked, as he recalled cringing whenever Zorka would speak. Recently, she had stopped.

''Oh that, when Hermione came by.''

''And before that, you were just taking the piss out of me?''

''Yes.'' Zorka said and repeated: ''How much money do you earn from your texts?''

''Very little.'' Montgomery answered, ignoring the way the Montenegrin had played him, ''The best wages are earned by holding talks and participating in conferences, but I can't very well do that because if I go there and start ranting, people are going to recognize me. I write in Latin, because if people can recognize Shakespeare, they can recognize my passionate writings in English.''

''People recognize Shakespeare in different languages….''

''Are you telling me that I should risk my life instead of obliviating your mother?''

''Yes!''

''Zorka, I did not expect this betrayal from you!''

''Y'see, that's fucking hard to believe because you usually see traitors and betrayers in people that aren't, when the real ones just sneak you by.''

* * *

Upon the mention of traitors, Voldemort recalled a conversation he'd had with his most competent of followers, Severus Snape.

Eileen's boy hadn't done a single thing that elicited doubt from the fickle-minded Dark Lord. Having created a horcrux recently Voldemort was in need of capable people around him. Bellatrix had lost his trust after a stint with a drink had gone sour. Abraxas was teetering from trusted to not after having colluded with Minerva too many times. His occlumency shields were tall and suspicious, too. Only Severus had allowed him entry into his mind. The whole mudblood fiasco was kind of deterring. Voldemort didn't like having gained a follower solely because the man wanted to get back at a woman that didn't fancy him.

''Severus, have you anything to report?''

Severus was always willing to make his day. It was kind of lovely, really. Good Guy Severus.

''I have indeed, my lord.'' Severus said and then relayed to him how he'd gone about hearing a prophecy about his person. Voldemort listened intensely, boring his crimson eyes into the man that had not failed him yet. It was kind of unreal. Severus Snape was just that committed. Genius boy. Couldn't do any wrong.

''Severus, your loyalty shall be greatly rewarded.'' Voldemort promised him, not knowing exactly how but making a mental note to go through with whatever his Death Eater wished. Good Guy Severus Snape.

The man bowed. ''Thank you, my lord. I live to serve.''

''Where is Abraxas?'' Voldemort asked. He wanted to see the man and he was constantly out and about. It unnerved him. He knew that he couldn't lock Abraxas up in his manor and hold him there, but given how Abraxas knew all of his secrets (both personal and political), it scared him not to know where he was.

''With Minerva McGonagall.''

'' _Pardon?''_

''They've struck up a friendship.''

Voldemort was aware of this, yes. But it was strange nonetheless. Especially because they were on opposing sides in a civil war. Minerva was closest to Dumbledore. Though certainly queer, he liked to humour Minerva into thinking he loved her just to keep her competence on his side.

When Abraxas came back and Voldemort asked him what he'd done with Minerva, what they'd talked about, he was met with tall occlumency shields and flippant sentences that answered without giving information.

He began to grow paranoid. Abraxas seemed like the kind of person that would turn traitor if it suited him. They were losing. And someone was feeding information to the opposing side. To _Dumbledore_.

* * *

Zorka brought Montgomery back to the present. ''Are you going to look for a conference or should I look into an obliviator?''

''I shall look for one nearby. It's time for Montgomery Goldsmith,'' Tom Riddle adjusted his accent, drawing out the words in a drawl, ''to go on out into the world and mingle with socially awkward shut-ins like himself.''

''More American.'' Zorka instructed. He didn't sound at all like he'd come from a Western.

Montgomery nodded. ''Y'all best believe I'll be flaunting up in this bitch.''

''Less American.'' Came the revised instruction.

''I'm keeping the y'all.''

* * *

Professor Malfoy stared at a blackboard with his wand drawn in one hand, halfway finished with writing his title when a horrible, dreadful thought overcame him.

Was professor spelled with two F's or one?

The children behind him murmured to each other, no doubt making fun of the incompetent aristocrat there to teach them. Malfoy began to sweat. His wand would have slid out of his hand if it weren't for the iron grasp he had on it. Abraxas had worn a lilac robe with swans, for a change. It was old fashioned of him, but lilac was always in. This robe Abraxas had seen first on Albus Dumbledore's striking form during the 1940s. Back then, wearing such a garment had been equivalent of shouting, 'I'M AS OUT AS CAN BE IN 1943!' Dippet, that old heterosexual, had not been the wiser. Neither had poor Minerva McGonagall, who had had the most terrible of crushes on the then young professor.

''One F!'' A kind, kindred spirit said from the back of the classroom and once Abraxas finished writing his full title and surname, he whirled around on his heel and asked who had helped him in his time of desperate need.

A tentative Hufflepuff girl, Tina Richards, raised her hand and was promptly awarded fifty points to Hufflepuff.

''That's for being nice!''

Ha, it was his turn to award and take away points unfairly!

* * *

Abraxas Malfoy recalled how Albus Dumbledore had taken fifty points from Slytherin during one class when Tom Riddle and Walburga Black had sat together and undermined each other the entire time. He took points for Walburga's slur-throwing and Tom Riddle's infuriating existence. Though, he had awarded five points to Ravenclaw when Nobby Leach called attention to the unfair treatment of non-purebloods in this school even thought it had been Dumbledore who was the most hypocritical.

''MUDBLOOD PRIDE!'' Nobby Leach had shouted and had had those five points taken away because the Ravenclaws were arguing and whenever Ravenclaws argued no teaching could be done. Abraxas was too busy laughing at the gal of vermin who thought themselves important to notice the way Tom Riddle, known as Slytherin's mudblood, looked at Nobby Leach with curiosity.

That had been the last time Albus Dumbledore thought to rearrange his classroom sitting schedule.

* * *

Vektor's predecessor had never cared much for sitting schedules. She'd only told her students not to sit in groups as everyone flocked to Abraxas. He breathed numbers and outcomes and math. One needed to know these things if they wanted to make money and spend it even more.

Once, when Abraxas was turning 17 and wanted a present from Tom, he'd handed the destitute orphan galleons to spend on his gift. Tom Riddle had transferred money into pounds and bought him an explanatory book about calculus. Really now, he should thank the muggles for inventing calculus. None of his Arithmancy predictions erred after he'd infused in them the muggle aspects of mathematics and abstract equations. Ha, it was so easy to gamble when one was certain their bet would yield victory.

That was Arithmancy. During Defence, however, everyone wanted to sit down next to Tom Riddle, who lapped up Merrythought's words like the water from the fountain of fair fortune.

Oh Merlin, Abraxas Malfoy stared at the children and tried to speak, he had to fill _Merrythought's_ shoes. The woman had spelled an unruly student's mouth shut and said that the next time someone made a single sound in her classroom she would be flinging them through the open window, to plummet to their deaths. Now that was a _power move_! Little wonder why Tom Riddle had idolised her.

''As I have written on the blackboard behind me, I am Professor Malfoy, your new professor of Defence Against the Dark Arts.'' Could he sound any lamer? Was _this_ it? Was this his best? No, yes, definitely...the children would eat him alive. They already judged his every movement. Did he swish his hands a lot? What about his hair was it too long? Should he have gone to a hairdresser? Was the robe okay? SPEAK, YOU PRISSY LITTLE _BASILISKS_! ''Today you may ask me questions,'' _as I am stalling terribly,_ ''because I am your new professor and you don't know me.''

''Um, professor,'' one brave Gryffindor asked, hand in the air, ''are you the same Malfoy that won three hundred thousand galleons on that quidditch bet and consequently became a billionaire?''

''Yes, that is me.'' Malawi had won the Cup. It wasn't that big of a deal. Though he had forgotten to rub it in Minerva's face. Tax evasion had taken up his entire summer. He put a hefty sum in a series of accounts no one but he knew about. It never hurt to be careful.

A series of exclamations of surprise, awe, and envy erupted in the classroom.

He was bombarded with questions, left and right. To the best of his ability, Abraxas Malfoy answered them, until one prompted a lung-splitting cough out of him.

''My grandmother said that you were a You-Know-Who sympathiser. Is that true?''

''Would Dumbledore hire a You-Know-Who sympathiser to teach impressionable children?'' Was all what Abraxas managed to say through his coughing fit. A little bit of blood smeared on the side of his mouth and feeling it there, he quickly patted it off with a monogrammed handkerchief from his pocket.

The answer to Abraxas' question was an undeniable _yes_.

* * *

Class ended with thrilled students who didn't spend a lesson learning but instead goofed off. The professor himself was overjoyed. His first lesson had gone splendidly!

''I can do this.'' Abraxas Malfoy said, walking by portraits who greeted him with the respect owed to a Hogwarts professor. HA! Much better than if he'd stayed in that love-nest Lucius and Narcissa were making out of his manor now that their child had gone off into the world.

On the way to his room, he had to descend a couple of flights of stairs. Nothing strenuous for a wizard used to Hogwarts. Abraxas leaned on his cane to help him shift his weight accordingly. Cane. Legs. Cane. Legs. Cane. Legs. Ca-

Something wrapped around Abraxas' legs.

Off balance and caught off guard, Abraxas began to fall.

The magic unwrapped.

No trace of its caster. It wasn't Peeves. His magic was prickly and uncomfortable to bear. This was comforting and alluring right before it threw you to your death. It wasn't a student. No, definitely not. Children hadn't the magical prowess or arcane ability to be so stealthy. Even Tom Riddle had been traceable, unless Hogwarts allowed him secrecy.

''FUCK!'' Abraxas flailed his arms ungracefully. The only thing that crossed his mind that this was the jinx, but jinxes were never this vicious. No. No this was definitely not a jinx.

He pushed his magic from keeping his illness contained into pulling up a wandless protego shield around himself. Boils bubbled on his skin, but cosmetics were a job for later. Survival was of most importance. On his tombstone better not be "Abraxas Malfoy, died via Hogwarts stairs".

It was after the first flight that Abraxas pushed his cane from an angle to stop himself from tumbling down. His protego shield sizzled off then. The boils lessened and Abraxas breathed, laboured. His hands shook with fear and adrenaline. Abraxas shut his eyes firmly and calmed.

Merlin, he'd nearly died!

''Didn't you say once that you would rather die than teach, dear Abraxas?''

Abraxas shot his eyes open, but found nobody and nothing to track the voice by.


	10. S is for Slytherin

Montgomery Goldsmith apparated to Zorka's grocery shop, saw her miserable, and decided to add more misery onto that pile. He neared her cash register and began to play with the money while whispering nonchalantly.''I found a conference.''

''Good work, Monty.'' Zorka said and watched him continue working with his hands.

''It's in Germany.''

''Brilliant.'' she supplied.

''I am having second thoughts. There are people whom I know very well who are going to recognize me and I do _not_ want to go through that.''

''How do you know that?''

''I saw the speaker list.''

''And?''

''If I do this wrong, I _will_ be found out.''

''No, you won't. You're an amazing actor. Are you bringing Hermione with you?''

''Gilderoy Lockhart is on that list and I do not want him to inspire any treasonous thoughts within MY pupil, thanks so very much.''

''All of this because of Gilderoy Lockhart?''

''What? _No._ Of course not. It gets worse-''

A customer came by and greeted Zorka amiably, chatting her up as he perused aisles for products. He glanced at Montgomery but paid him no mind except for a formal hello. Montgomery returned it just as indifferently. When the person left, Zorka asked him, ''Who are the speakers?''

''Me, obviously.'' Montgomery Goldsmith gestured himself. ''No one can resist this American charm.''

''I worry about your mental health sometimes.''

''You would be the first.'' He muttered, and then said louder, for Zorka to understand him, ''There's two more parselmouths that are going to be presenting something to do with mind magic in correlation with parseltongue and how you can't really read a parselmouth's mind via legilimency because the thoughts are all in parseltongue. They're trying to figure out a translating spell— which, in my opinion, seems like a waste—''

Another customer entered. A woman with three kids. They screamed throughout the entire shop. The woman's eyes held nothing but suicidal ideation. Zorka admitted to wanting that look of anguish, to missing waking up early to feed her son.

Montgomery patted her shoulder and continued speaking. ''Gilderoy Lockhart is a hack and most academia circles know it, yet he's good publicity and still gets invited. I don't really know what he's going to talk about… I read his most recent book, Battling a Basilisk, and it's eerie how accurate everything was. It's as if he actually fought a Basilisk.''

Zorka made a disinterested, humming noise. She wiped away her tears discreetly.

Montgomery finished playing with her money and spelled the cash register shut.

''The rest is mostly creation of blood wards that work with animal blood so it's not _problematique_.'' The Montenegrin laughed at the disdainful phrasing. ''Vampires are going to be there. They're experts on blood magic, so that's a plus.''

''Sounds like fun.''

''You could come with me.'' Tom Riddle, overachiever and proud of it, offered. ''Your potential is wasted running this supermarket.''

''I'm content with my life, unlike you.''

''That genuinely hurt.'' he gasped, genuinely unhurt. A hand across his heart for dramatic effect.

''What are _you_ going to talk about?''

''Good question, Zorka. I admire your curiosity.''

''You have no fucking idea, do you?''

''The parselmouths have taken everything interesting. There's seven parselmouths at the conference, excluding myself... I've never spoken to two parselmouths, let alone seven!''

''That's nice. You can mingle and talk shit about everyone around you without them knowing.''

''I can already do that in Albanian.''

''With whom?''

''Albanian vampires, mostly. Though we have fallen out after I nearly burned down their HQ back in the late forties.''

''You have a problem.''

''I have got many.''

''What about your love potion study?''

''Mh, _that_.'' Montgomery said with a distasteful grimace. ''A girl from Canada has conducted a thorough research and I'm interested in hearing her out. Mine is not nearly as ready to be defended.''

''What's the theme?''

''You got it - we'll hear it.''

Zorka snorted, thinking it a joke. She waited for Montgomery to tell her as much and when he didn't she whispered, ''Should I come with my food multiplication charm?''

''You would make a fortune selling the patent, I'm sure.'' He drummed his fingers on the counter Zorka sat next to. It was atonal and irritant, the melody his overwrought mind overflowing with thoughts and predictions conducted.

''Who are the people you're afraid of meeting?''

''It isn't fear.''

''Then it's wariness.'' She amended because no man liked to be told he was afraid. It had something to do with pride and patriarchal notions of masculinity. Zorka didn't care much for it. She hadn't a husband to mollycoddle or a son to call 'hero'. Her brothers were away and she liked them that way.

Montgomery said nothing and Zorka did not push him, not having mental capacity for curiosity after a laborious day at work. Boredom was the cause of her lack of strength, not actual work. After another fucking supermarket had opened, her business was plummeting.

''I cannot believe I am doing this,'' was all he said before disapparating.

* * *

''TO GERMANY, MY SUPERSTAR!''

Draco lagged along, more a shadow beckoned by death to its lair than a chipper eighteen-year-old full of life.

* * *

The Ministry was full of bureaucracy and misfiled documentation of Abraxas Malfoy's many hush-ups. Moody made it his duty to seek them out, but just when he thought he found something, it ended up as a dead end. This continued for decades.

There was definitely someone on the inside helping Abraxas Malfoy, but the auror couldn't pinpoint whom it was. Not yet, anyway. Veritaserumwas snuggled in his breast pocket. After their interrogation, he would know. Moody was not above using dirty tactics to gain information for justice's sake.

He held no sympathy for Death Eater scum.

Abraxas Malfoy leaned on his cane, looking sick and delirious and numb. His hair was held in a tight ponytail so as to minimize the dishevelledness of his appearance. Scars peeked from under his light-reflecting robe. He lit up as a Christmas tree, as Arthur Weasley would no doubt say if he were nearby.

Moody saw him holding a potion and knew that the Intel his healer had said was correct. Around this time the Malfoy drank a magic stabilising potion that made him pliant and compliant. Alastor snatched it from Abraxas' shaky hand and pretended to sniff it, asking him if it was an illegal substance.

He had come alone. No family by his side, and neither Miss McGonagall. Merlin, that **woman**. She was everything Moody had ever wanted out of a wife. Her polite coldness hurt him more than if she'd told him to bugger off and never meet her eyes.At least Minerva had told him that she only saw Abraxas as a companion. It helped calm his nerves to know that the man fancied Dark Lords.

''I need to take that or else I'll collapse.'' Abraxas feebly said.

''Hmf.'' Alastor said and explained that after having a colleague of his check the contents he could have it back. Abraxas had gritted his teeth and remained silent. Obedient lad.

Alastor Moody lead him to a room to be questioned in, popped out into a bathroom nearby to place a few drops of veritaserum into the potion, and returned, saying that it was as Abraxas had said.

''Why in Merlin's name would I lie about something like this?'' He said and drank it normally. Ah, that tasteless Veritaserum magic.

Moody's face twisted in a joyful sneer.

Then it fell apart when Abraxas Malfoy's legal representation walked through the door with an unnoticeable skip to her pink heel.

"Hem hem," a toad wearing a pink cardigan said. After Dolores Umbridge's escapades during 1995, she had been demoted to legal representation. Fudge didn't want to touch her with a ten foot pole, let alone to have someone as outwardly dark as his undersecretary. Though Abraxas Malfoy did have a soft spot for cutthroat halfbloods impersonating purebloods. For the most part, Lucius' solicitors handled Malfoy business, but Abraxas liked to use Dolores Umbridge from time to time to enact chaos on the world. Dolores was good at making things go away. Especially since she knew the Ministry like the back of her hand. Umbridge had lost everything when Hermione Granger led a rebellion alongside Harry Potter. That was when he really took a liking to the girl. Before that, she'd been nothing more than a witch born of filthy muggles that outshone his grandson in school. Moody deserved such a treat.

"Are we ready to proceed?"

Abraxas' eyes strayed from Moody to Umbridge, taking her form in. She was a pudgy woman. Not pretty at all. The viciousness made up for it. He knew to appreciate that in a woman. Perhaps Abraxas could get Thoros interested. His wife was long gone and Umbridge didn't seem like someone above dating a known Death Eater. One's options were so limited when one had a Death Eater tattoo.

Though, the real reason for his intense staring wasn't because Abraxas wished to play matchmaker, but because of a **_S_** pecific locket dangled from her short, breakable neck.

Having experienced a near death experience at the hands of unexplainable magic at Hogwarts, Abraxas felt disbalanced. Minerva had told him that being tripped was the least of his worries. The next two days were full of normalcy. But the dread of waiting for something to go wrong cascaded upwards.

Umbridge said something. Abraxas didn't hear. He concentrated on the horcrux.

The locket was familiar in the way the diary wasn't. Mostly because the diary was an angst riddled teenager and thought that two men having any sort of feelings for one another was worse than committing murder and making a horcrux. Abraxas Malfoy wasn't at all strong enough to talk about Mrs. Cole's influence on young Tom Riddle. So he contented himself with watching the locket. It was yellow like Hufflepuff, but in the centre, there was a green S.

On pink it looker abhorrent.

The locket's presence lulled him gently. It swayed his erratic mind at ease. All of those lessons he had to plan in advance melted away into unimportance. Tests he was forced by law into writing up tumbled out of his mind.

If the jinx didn't kill him, his illness coupled with administrative responsibility surely would.

* * *

It was third of September and Abraxas had yet to teach any of his classes anything. In the fifth year classes, he was explaining WWII because some of them had history OWLs and that ghost was of no bloody use.

''This muggle, Adolf Hitler, decided to invade Poland because he was an idiot and wanted to blame minorities for his own mistakes-''

''What's this got to with DADA?'' a Slytherin asked.

''Shush, this is important knowledge, child. Three hundred days of detention.''

Sputtering: ''You can't do that!''

''Watch me.''

Snape later informed him that Abraxas could not, in fact, do that. So he lessened the verdict to three days.

Sixth years outright told him that, due to the turbulent shifting of DADA professors, they felt unprepared to take NEWT classes. They mostly talked about life and philosophy. Someone asked him if he knew You-Know-Who personally and that had sparked a brand new elective within his class: Abraxas Malfoy's teenage years

''I was a beater on my quidditch team. You-Know-Who came to the matches, mostly because it was seen as lack of school spirit if you didn't attend when your house played. He didn't watch them, he just came to them and read books. Anyway, it's the last game of our fourth year.''

Everyone listened raptly, more so than when Abraxas was actually teaching the curriculum.

''Ravenclawvs Slytherin. They're leading by about fifty points. Nothing drastic. If our seeker Iris Selwyn fucking caught the snitch, there'd be no problem. She's whizzing around. I'm mostly stagnant in the sky watching out for bludgers. One is gaining on Iris. I'm surging to save her. She's millimetres close to the snitch. I hit the bludger, she gets the snitch - and the bludger goes for the bleachers and hits You-Know-Who **straight** in the face.'' Abraxas howled with laughter and clapped his hands like a seal, bending slightly.

''Wicked.'' One Gryffindor said. The rest of the class was horrified, yet amused beyond comprehension.

''How did he retaliate?''

''Oh, well, it wasn't like I did it on purpose. It was _sport_. He just stopped coming to them without a really strong shield he sustained throughout the entire match.''

''That seemed…merciful of him.'' one teenager said, having probably based their entire construction of Tom Riddle on torture stories and death tolls.

''Mh,'' Abraxas hummed.

The seventh years who were, somehow, in NEWT DADA, were seniors and therefore disinterested in academics. Ginny Weasley and Luna Lovegood were the only upside of that year for him.

''Your grandson's a ponce,'' Ginny Weasley had said and been awarded thirty points for being interesting and forward.

''We're Malfoys, it's in our genetic code somewhere.''

Luna cast a patronus charm and was promptly awarded seventy points for actually doing something related to Defence.

Later, Minerva McGonagall drew him aside and told him that he couldn't go about giving so many points for things like that.

''Fine.''

Malfoy points became a thing. They transferred into money. One thousand Malfoy points equalled ten galleons.

''You can't pay the children to behave!''

''I can and I am!''

''Abraxas!''

''Severus!''

The jinx did not attack. It bided its time, Abraxas was sure. Waiting. Plotting. Staking him out.

* * *

He blinked. Umbridge was shaking him awake. Moody looked ready to throttle him.

"Did you have a nice nap?"

Nap! It lasted less than a minute. It wasn't his wretched fault that the potions made him sleepy.

"No." Abraxas yawned and flickered his silver glance to the presence of the horcrux wrapped around an ignorant neck. He _wanted_ it. And most things AbraxasMalfoy wanted, AbraxasMalfoy got. "Dolores, where _did_ you get that necklace?"

"Oh," she smiled and clutched Tom's soul with her unworthy fingers. "It was a family heirloom."

"Mh." That was as likely as her mother not being a muggle.

"Abraxas Malfoy," peeved Alastor Moody peered at him with his fake eye. "State your full name."

"Abraxas Hyperion Malfoy." Abraxas said easily. "Though you ought to know that, Alastor, considering how many of my arrest forms you've written and misplaced."

Umbridge _giggled_. She was a genius at misplacing things. Horrible to be around, yes, but even horrid people had their use.

Moody refrained from causing a scene. Not now when he had Abraxas Malfoy under a truth serum. When he could ask for names and information You-Know-Who had entrusted only to him. But first, the one question that would help him most was knowing

"What were you doing the night of 31st of October 1981?"

Abraxas eyes balked open at the question, even more so when an answer was pried from his mouth unwillingly, yet every fibre of his body shouted at him not to speak.

"I," he said slowly, forcing will onto whatever substance pushed him towards speaking, "was," then clasped a hand over his mouth to muffle the next word. Moody flicked his wand and Abraxas' hands fell to his side.

"Alastor Moody!" Dolores Umbridge's shrill voice sounded and rattled the room. Magic flared from the woman – from the locket – when she – _it_ – realised what Alastor Moody had done. "This is illegal!" A burst of magic shot a compulsive explosion in an enclosed space, like invisible, jagged lines that lunged at Moody and pushed him overboard.

"...throwing up poison." finished Abraxas Malfoy, looking grim and pale by the exertion undertaken for naught. His fingers gripped hold of his cane as a shudder, cold and uncomfortable overtook him.

Moody looked at Abraxas like he hadn't expected that as an answer. Abraxas refused to shut his eyes, but held them on the tousled auror.

Dolores coughed in her annoying way. She leaned forward and placed a palm on the table, letting the locket dangle near Abraxas. Tempting him. He wished to snatch it from her roughly and hold it close to himself. To feel the warmth of its flame.

"I shall not stay here while under veritaserum, thank you." Abraxas hissed and crutched towards the exit.

Umbridge followed after him, guiding him, near him. Unnaturally so. It was like she felt a compulsion to be by his side. Tom Riddle was sending him mixed signals even from beyond the grave with his murderous jinx and protective horcrux.

Knowing that time was running out, Moody asked the one question he was certain AbraxasMalfoy of all people would know given his relationship with he who must not be named: ''Abraxas Hyperion Malfoy, is You-Know-Who alive?''

When veritaserum opened Abraxas' mouth against his will, the word came clipped and angry and full of hatred:

'' **No.''**

* * *

You-Know-Who ate bureks and apologised in Montenegrin to Ilinka who was staring at him like non-smokers did at smokers smoking in the non-smoking section. ''And so it's not _really_ my fault but the **government's** for their failure to-''

''Yes,'' Ilinka cut him off and returned to her cooking, ''I do not care.''

''So, we're good?'' Montgomery Goldsmith, American and a known old lady charmer, amped up the charm as he leaned towards Ilinka.

''Ha. No.'' Ilinka said, unaffected. ''Have fun in Germany.''

Montgomery cursed and decided to bring Hermione along as emotional support.

Hermione beamed and said that she'd always wanted to go to Germany.

''When are we going?'' Hermione threw a book into her extended bag and said she was ready to go right now if they needed to go. Montgomery had to respect that level of intellectual commitment. Drop everything and go somewhere to learn. Even he hadn't been this driven.

''It starts in a few days, but we can room with an acquaintance of mine if we leave now. She goes everywhere days before to scope out the perimeter… ''

''Did she tell you about the conference?''

''Yes. Her name is Lena.''

''Lena sounds cool.''

''She's not.''

''Oh.''

''Let's go to the portkey point.'' Tom Riddle beckoned Hermione to grab hold of him. When she asked him if he'd packed, he told her that he had everything he needed with him. What he didn't have he either conjured or illusioned. Satisfied, the two disapparated to the portkey point.

Both grabbed the wine bottle at the same time and were transported to a familiar French cafe.

A black woman with a glass of wine in one hand and wand in the other waved at them. Hermione glanced at the clock and saw that it was night-time. No wonder this time around she caught the genius behind the portkeys up and about.

''Lakeisha.'' Civilly, Montgomery Goldsmith inclined his head as a greeting and went to shake hands. To free up her hand, she drank the wine in one big gulp and firmly shook the American's hand.

''You should come by more often.'' Lakeisha said calmly, no slur to her words or any sign that that was her fifth glass in the last two hours. ''There's a person who'd like to see you.''

Francois, business like to a fault, asked Hermione if she would like to sit down and have a drink. Hermione asked for water and got one in a crystal glass.

''Did Lena come through here?''

''Yu _p_.'' Lakeisha popped the P as she answered Lord Voldemort. She wobbled in her heels slightly, but managed to stride on her own. Francois was nearby, however, if the need to catch his boss arose. ''She came right through here.'' Passing by many bottles of various alcoholic drinks, they reached one with a tree painted on it. Raki was written on it in beautiful swirls on a piece of paper and stuck on the bottle with sellotape.

''This right here takes you to Skrapari, Albania. Hot damn, did I get drunk there once.'' Lakeisha laughed and everyone laughed alongside her because this woman was the one that created the first free network of portkeys all across Europe. Before Lakeisha Durant's ingenuity and goodwill, the rich could travel freely while the poor wizards had to rely on apparition points.

Then, walking to a tall beer mug, Lakeisha tapped it with her wand and said, ''Schneider Weiss, folks. That was a crazy summer right before I married my Albert. God rest his soul. This is where Lena went. I assume you're going to that stupid conference, too?''

''Yes.'' Hermione giddily answered instead of Montgomery, earning a sympathetic glance from Lakeisha.

''Thank you for your hospitality.'' Montgomery, ever the polite Dark Lord, said and tugged Hermione close to him. ''We must be on our way to Lena's. Au revoir, Lakeisha.''

''See ya.'' Lakeisha said.

And the two intellectuals were off to Munich.

* * *

Albus Dumbledore had Moody release Harry Potter from his auror training for a day so as to fill him in on something very important.

''What's happened?'' Moody had asked.

''It is a secret, Alastor.''

''If I guess, will you tell me?''

Seeing no harm in a little game, Albus allowed it.

''You Know Who is back.'' Alastor said and watched Dumbledore for a reaction.

''Yes, he is.''

''I KNEW THAT FUCKER WAS LYING STRAIGHT TO MY FACE!'' Alastor Moody shouted atop his lungs, startling Dumbledore who had heard about the potion incident. ''But how did he do it while under a truth serum? Was his magic that powerful? No, he must be unaware of his being back, otherwise the potion would have forced Malfoy into saying the truth. So they aren't cohorts this time around…''

Dumbledore, wisely, decided to remain silent while Moody exhausted himself by thinking deeply on the infinite possibilities.

''I need your vow to not speak about this to anyone.'' the old wizard said, his twinkles gone. Moody waited. Dumbledore further explained. ''It is a precaution for Harry. The less people know, the more time we have to craft a plan.''

Moody nodded.

''Also, stop this madness with Abraxas Malfoy. Using such a potion on Hogwarts staff is prohibited. He is under my watchful eye and protection. If he was in league with Voldemort, I would know, rest assured.''

Moody nodded, less assured but obedient.

''Professor Dumbledore? Moody, sir?''

Harry entered the room, closing the door on his way in.

''Harry,'' Dumbledore turned on his twinkles and said calmly, ''there is something we ought to talk about.''


	11. Familiar Trainwreck

Lena was an arcane presence to be around. Her magic exuded power, antagonism, and above all: wariness. Montgomery and Hermione found the vampire in front of the Munich Rathaus at around 23h – which, as Montgomery supplied helpfully, was 11PM in American.

When the two native English speakers had approached her, she'd dissolved into shadow, appeared behind Montgomery, and toppled him down, casting off his glamour. ''What happened to your skin? You smell different.'' For emphasis, the short woman sniffed him. ''Disgusting.''

''Get off of me, Lena.'' Montgomery used his Lord Voldemort voice. It was super effective.

Lena obliged and stared up at him, craning her neck to look at a scowling Montgomery. ''Who are you supposed to be?''

''Montgomery Goldsmith, American capitalist – wizard scholar. And yourself?'' He asked after reglamouring himself.

''Lena,'' she simply said, her antagonism fading with time spent with non-threats. Then to Hermione: ''You are his student?''

Hermione nodded and before she could introduce herself Lena continued, pointing at herself and saying in slow, deliberate English. ''I am his teacher.''

''Was.'' Montgomery corrected, letting some of that haughty Tom Riddle shine through.

''I see no difference.'' Lena said calmly. She rose on her toes and pat her student once on the cheek. ''I think this body is taller.''

''Wouldn't know.''

''No, it is _definitely_ taller.''

The two dark mages spoke, then, for ten minutes straight, going back and forth in a language Hermione would later find out was Albanian. It was strange to see _her_ mentor interacting with _his_ mentor. What a night! Hermione prepped thousands of questions for the vampire, but the way the woman laconically spoke, she would not glean much knowledge. The only thing she found out was that Montgomery had gone to Albania as a young man with everything to prove and a thirst for knowledge that could only be quelled by dark creatures. Lena was the darkest he could find.

''I should have searched for darker,'' Montgomery confessed. ''Lena should never be anyone's first choice.''

''Ha. I was _nice_.'' Lena defended herself, comfortable now that she was in presence of non-enemies. ''Darker creatures would have drained you of your precious blood. You were a child.''

''I was twenty!''

''Angry child.'' Lena corrected.

''When was this?'' Hermione asked, genuinely curious to get some backstory on her mentor.

''Forti-'' Lena had started but Montgomery had stopped her.

''You mix things up, mentor mine. It was from 1970 to 1975.''

Montgomery Goldsmith didn't look a day over forty-five. Therefore, he had had to realign his entire timeline of events. Though this did give him an excuse as to why he wasn't fighting in Vietnam, if Hermione asked.

''Right. 1970.'' Lena said to remember and affirm. Montgomery nodded, pleased.

Hermione figured her mentor's mentor was forgetful. Being ageless probably didn't help. It would be rude to ask how old she was.

The vampire's appearance was short. Her built was short, her hair was short, but her eyes were an unsettling shade of red. Her mentor's eyes glowed compared to Lena's, Hermione noticed. His eyes were full of life whereas Lena's, her being a vampire, were lifeless.

Hermione outstretched her hand to finally greet Lena and said, ''My name's Hermione, by the way.''

Instinctively, habitually, Lena replied, shaking the hand in an iron grip. ''I am Ze- Lena. My name Lena, fuck. It _used to_ be Zef, but I decided to rename myself after my family died in a fiendish fire.''

Montgomery, slightly behind Lena, snorted.

The vampire fixed him with a glare. He muttered an apology in Albanian, but not before telling her to pull herself together. That he had a new name, too, and wasn't making any slip ups.

''I went almost two hundred years as Zef,'' she seethed in Albanian, her fangs showing in threat. ''You went by Tom, then Death Coward, then Montgomery in 70 years. I do not need your point of view.''

Hermione had absolutely no idea what they were talking about, as Albanian was some sort of amalgam of languages and words and sounds that were absolutely foreign to her. Montenegrin she could scarcely understand, if Zorka spoke very slowly, and only thanks to Bulgarian. English, in America or otherwise, was the same. For the record, Hermione wished to say that her mentor did a damn good British accent. There was an incident when he'd hit his foot against a piece of furniture and then colourfully cursed in the best cockney accent Hermione had ever heard. She'd asked him how he could do that and, seeing panic in her mentor's eyes, he explained hurriedly: ''I watch Fools and Horses.''

(In reality, Montgomery had only seen one episode with Zorka when it was on television and never sought it out again because to remind himself of his past was honestly not something he wanted to do.)

Lena's outrageous exclamation brought Hermione back from her remembering: ''We are together, let's go seeing!''

''Sightseeing.'' Montgomery corrected.

Lena waved him off.

Hermione needn't be asked twice. She fished out a digital camera from her extended bag and began to take pictures. It was pitch black. The flash distorted the photos. Her magic affected the camera so much that, after two photos, it had to be turned off and on.

"Could we do this again when the sun is out? These photos are rubbish."

Lena nodded and said that she could, on the condition that someone conjured her up a potent umbrella.

Hermione flushed, remembering the vampire in the room. ''I'm sorry.''

''No need, girl.''

''Her name is _Hermione_.'' Montgomery stressed and with a flourish made an umbrella out of thin air and handed it over to Lena, asking her if this would do. It was black and sleek.

''It is night-time.'' Lena deadpanned, accepting it to her arms. ''How should I know if it is good _now_?''

''Use it tomorrow, then. Merlin. I try to do something kind.''

''Fine,'' Lena said and opened the umbrella straight in Montgomery's face, pushing him away with the gesture. ''It is handsome. Thank you.''

Then offered to Hermione: ''If you want proper learning. Come to me. Do not listen to watered down magic this one teaches.''

At Montgomery's lip twitch, Hermione jumped in to defend his honour. ''Mr. Goldsmith's taught me plenty of amazing things. Occlumency, for starters.'' She began to count on her fingers, listing ardently. ''We brewed poison together and then various antivenoms. Not to mention all of the deliciously fun theory!''

Lena did not find theory fun or delicious at all. She glanced disgustedly at Montgomery and said in Albanian, ''Keep her.''

''I will,'' he returned, proud at Hermione for sticking up for him.

''Oh, and recently he's begun teaching me fiendfyre!'' Hermione still continued her defence crusade, then faltered. ''Although we might make a slight break until things die down. There was an incident with the law.''

''Was that you in Montenegro days ago?' In Albanian, Lena inquired with curled lips.

Tom Riddle nodded discreetly.

Lena laughed. ''Angry child,'' she said, endearingly.

''Do not patronize me.''

''Did you burn down a forest again?'' Lena said, alluding to their time together in Albania.

''We were at sea this time. It was handled.'' Red sparks littered his form and Lena wisely inclined her head in a ceasefire. It was not fiendfyre red, but cruciatus currant.

Lena, out of good faith, asked Hermione about herself and relished in hearing all of her Hogwarts exploits. Montgomery listened and thought that Hogwarts had somehow gotten even _more_ dangerous since he'd last been there.

''I mean, my last professor died a day after our graduation. It was dreadful! They say the Hogwarts curse killed him.''

''Jinx.'' Tom Riddle corrected on instinct. At Hermione's peculiar look and Lena's knowing grin, he explained: ''I heard it was a jinx. Not a curse.''

''Sir, you're American. How would you know about British business?''

''Heard from a reliable source.''

''Mh. Who is your reliable source?''

''Merrythought.'' Montgomery said casually, trying to figure out who was the least telling Hogwarts professor to pick. His Defence professor hadn't been on British soil in decades. Ever since her retirement, actually. She'd gone to New Zealand with her wife and never returned.

''Who?'' Hermione asked and insulted Montgomery Goldsmith by not knowing who Galatea fucking Merrythought was.

''A legend, Hermione. An _absolute_ legend.''

''Anyway,'' Hermione continued her tale, ''the jinx,'' Montgomery nodded, ''killed my last professor and before that always made them leave.''

''Jinxes cannot just kill people.'' The man who placed the jinx on the position said. ''It's not supposed to do that. That is curse domain. Jinxes cannot have such autonomy. It's… it isn't.'' At a loss for words, Tom Riddle fell quiet and _thought_.

Lena interjected. ''How did the professor die?'

''The poor man fell from the seventh floor all the way to the first. His neck broken and head concussed. Horrible.'' The empathetic witch shuddered.

''Seventh floor,'' Tom Riddle repeated. The gears in his mind turned. The Room of Requirement was on the seventh floor. The DADA office and classroom were on the fifth floor. Though the jinx _could_ go anywhere, it was tied mainly to the Defence domain. To have it wandering anywhere else would be redundant. Why was his jinx on the seventh floor of Hogwarts? What possible need would it have to be there?

"Group photo!" Hermione said and clapped her hands. She found a confused local to take a photo of them in front of the Deutsches Museum at bloody night. It was closed, so they had to content themselves with the exterior. To spite the vampire discriminatory world, they decided to pose right next to the closed sign.

Lena and Hermione squeezed Montgomery between them. Each of them gestured to the closed sign. The youngest was the happiest, stretched her head thin by smiling. The middleman, in all senses of the word, was giving his practised politician's smile. The oldest was looking directly in the camera, fangs out and glinting.

All three of them had red eyes, but for vastly different reasons. Horcrux, vampirism, and the camera flash. The unholy trinity.

* * *

Abraxas whined with the passion and arrogance only single child aristocrats could have.

"...And then Moody gave me Veritaserum! I've never felt so emotionally compromised in my life. I shall sue him, Minerva!''

Minerva drank black tea and made a noncommittal noise.

Hogwarts staff woke up earlier than the students. No one had told Abraxas this when he was accepting the job offer. Severus Snape turned out be a coffee man. Express espressos all around. He sipped the black liquid while garbed in black with slimy black hair.

"Are you emulating the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, Severus?"

Snape blearily blinked.

They were in the teacher's lounge and practically half of the faculty looked like they were run over. Vektor was blinking the fatigue away, holding her tea and staring in the distance with glassy, hazy eyes. Sinistra yawned every two seconds and sat upright on their love chaise. Pomona and Flitwick were talking so as to not sleep. They spoke in hushed tones to one another about the duelling club they might restart. "Gilderoy Lockhart really cocked it all up," Flitwick whispered, remembering what a disaster 1992 had been. No chambers were opened, but no learning was done, either.

"At least the school had got some funds because of his celebrity status." Pomona, always looking on the bright side of life, said. She was drinking some herbal concoction of hers. It smelled foul, but Pomona seemed to like it.

Hagrid was up and about normally, although that was because of his early groundskeeper hours. Filch, who sometimes spent time in the teacher's lounge because anyone who wasn't Dumbledore, a parent, or a student was allowed, pat Mrs. Norris while talking about how he dreaded every year.

''The children are so cruel, Mrs. Norris.'' He nuzzled against the cat's head gently, nearly weeping and snarling at the same time. Abraxas blinked curiously at the squib.

"How is everyone?" Hagrid asked. Less chirpily than usual, but enough for people to hate him for his lack of morning apathy.

Minerva's eyes held murder, but she answered amiably enough. "Well."

"I could use another two hours of proper sleep." Abraxas said. Instead of either tea or coffee, he drowned in potions. Halfway into his last one, he gagged.

Severus' expression of stone-facedness softened. "What are you taking?"

"Magic stabilising potions. I treat the symptoms rather than the illness." Abraxas divulged. "It attacks my immune system, or so the healing lot keeps telling me. Magic apparently stabilises it, but since my magic drains more easily, I need to replenish it. When I cast a spell, the act destabilizes me and the attack renews. While my magic keeps it dormant and I act as a squib, all is well. Then, there are few difficulties. It is easier to breathe and live. However, I use magic, as I am not a _squib_ ,'' he said loud enough for Filch to hear and look down in seething shame of his status. Before Pomona could stop him, Filch had scooped Mrs. Norris up in his hands and left, making up an excuse about cleaning along the way.

Minerva's lips were tightly pulled in a frown. Snape's less so, as he asked Abraxas how he was handling school.

"The children are fine. I'm going by the curriculum with the first to fourth years," Malfoy said.

"You ought to be doing that for _all_ years." Minerva stressed. It was a mockery, what the man was doing with the fifth-to-seventh years.

"Minerva, honestly," Abraxas said in his give-it-a-rest tone. "As if the upper years want to learn. They never have. Not in Draco's time. Not in Severus' time. And not in our time."

"I did," Minerva protested.

"All right, allow me to reiterate. Aside from Tom Riddle, Hermione Granger, and yourself, literally nobody wanted to study. Everyone either wanted to sleep with Tom Riddle or Walburga Black. There was no in between. Teenagers are creatures of extremes."

Minerva deadpanned.

"All right, _you_ wished for Dumbledore to take you in his very queer arms and tell you how beautiful you were and how your charm has made him heterosexual!" Abraxas pretend swooned, imitating lovestruck Minerva McGonagall.

Severus Snape strenuously struggled to stop choking on his coffee. Minerva somehow looked even more murderous.

''Who was your faculty crush, then?'' Severus asked, in a rare sign of camaraderie to Minerva.

"Professor Rytm was a beautiful witch and a number genius. Not to mention she had _me_ as a favourite instead of Tom Riddle." Abraxas recalled his misshapen youth.

"What, were you better than _him_ at Arithmancy?" Pomona joined their conversation. Flitwick flicked his gaze to them.

"Yes," Abraxas unapologetically said.

"Then… if you're so versed in predicting the future..." Severus said slowly, "why did you not do some equations to see the outcomes of 1981?"

Silence, far too long to be anything but painful, stretched into infinity.

Abraxas looked into Severus's eyes, knowing that proper occlumens and legilimens favoured having eye contact. "I did. If your paranoid lord had listened to me, we'd have won. But instead…"

_He called me a liar and poisoned me._

Abraxas dared not say.

Neither Minerva nor Severus felt right by hearing a Hogwarts staff member so openly sad about You-Know-Who's demise. That 'we' was just as uncomfortable to hear as 'mudblood' was.

"I have a proposition, dear colleagues!" Abraxas crutched to the centre of the room and began his soapboxing sans soap box. "I am well aware of how little they pay educators and I personally shan't stand for it!"

"Sit down then!" Vektor laughed. Sinistra booed at the play on words.

"Hush you." Abraxas sized the staff up. "I propose a strike. Comme en France! What say you? Do you respect yourselves or are you going to continue this complicit torture?"

"How do you know how little our pay is?" Sinistra inquired. She leaned on Vektor and woke up gradually.

"My son is on the board of governors," Abraxas answered.

"As were you!" Flitwick, indignant, said. "I have tried to get funds for the duelling club for a better part of the last three decades but the governors – yourself included – shut it down every time!"

"True," the Malfoy allowed, not expecting to get attacked by his colleagues like this.

"And you didn't fix anything either!" Vektor joined in. "The arithmancy department was in need of updated books, but the board was against adapting muggle mathematics with arithmancy! There isn't a single Master Arithmantic in the UK because of that."

Abraxas liked it that way very much. Less competition for his unerring predictions. "I understand your reservations-"

"Only when it affects you personally do you decide to get off of your high horse and help," Sinistra joined in.

" _Yes_!" Abraxas freely admitted. "Why _would_ I concern myself with your lot unless it affects me personally? So how about that strike, mh?"

Minerva laughed at his selfish lifestyle. Incredulous. "No, thank you. We all know you want to strike so you won't have to teach. If you want to do better, change the bloody budget without roping us into your schemes."

Severus finished his coffee and said he would meet everyone at the morning feast.

Dumbledore, later during the morning feast in the Great Hall, noticed that his teachers were fiercely colder to Abraxas than they had been before. Something was severely wrong. Abraxas Malfoy didn't take any joy in having Sybil Trelawney jumpy around him.

"Psst."

Abraxas turned towards Dumbledore and crutched to him when the Great Hall was practically empty.

"What has happened?"

"People hate me because of politics. It isn't something I've ever seen as a deterrent," Abraxas Malfoy explained.

"If you are used to being hated, then why not work towards changing that?"

"Oh. _Ha_. No." Abraxas said, hiding his insecurities with laughter. "No need for such drastic measures. Minerva likes me because I saved her life during the war, or it's because she owes me a life debt. It is hard to tell." Thoros Nott liked him because Notts were always friends with Malfoys. Tom liked him because of the opportunities Abraxas' influence gave him. Even Antoinette only liked him because she'd been forced into marrying him. Shrug, then. "I'm liked.'' He said as a way to convince himself more than Dumbledore.

"Your son-"

"Zut!" Abraxas said in annoyance, then. The potions always affected him like this. They either made him unreasonably on edge or too sleepy to function. "Il est un connard."

"A duck?" Dumbledore's French comprehension was severely lacking.

"Quoi? Non. Mon Merlin, Dumbledore. No. Why would I call my son a duck? That is _canard*_.''

Dumbledore had no real answer for him there. That was why he just took out lemon drops from his robe pocket and handed some to Abraxas as consolation.

''Have a care, Mr. Malfoy.''

''Goodness, being called that takes me back.'' Abraxas said and took the proffered candies, popping one in his mouth.

Morgana, Abraxas thought with a bitterness he hadn't known existed inside him, he really fucking hated lemons.

* * *

Gilderoy Lockhart and Draco Malfoy swaggered into the Munich conference, held in a spacious arena with magical protection to stop the muggles from even thinking about going anywhere near it.

''Draco!''

''Yes, sir?''

''DRACO!''

''YES, SIR?''

''We'll be pitching my new book, _Brooding Broom Boom,_ tomorrow! Today we are making an appearance for appearance' sake.''

''I personally wish to hear what magical innovations witches and wizards have come up with, but you do you, sir.''

''Atta boy, Draco!'' Gilderoy slammed a hard hand on Draco's back as an endearing gesture, hurting his apprentice in the process. Draco wheezed.

People came to greet them, all from various ends of the world, come together in unity to create a space for witches and wizards to share ideas and _evolve_ rather than devolve. It would be a safe space for all sorts of mages of any nationality or blood. Many languages were heard, from English to Japanese. If one strained their ears, they could hear hissing coming from a small group of people.

''Lockhart, darling!'' Heidi Ottoman, organiser of this entire conference, said. ''I am happy to see you!''

''Heidi, you beautiful beast!'' Gilderoy pushed Draco aside, twirled Heidi just at the right angle to catch their good sides as cameras flashed. Both struck poses that they knew accented their best parts.

Discarded, Draco roamed freely.

It unnerved him in a way he couldn't explain when a few vampires corked open bottles full of blood and sipped it like he often did wine. There was a stand with blood bottles, even! Donated blood, it said. One vampire, brown haired and unnaturally pale, sloshed his bottle in a distinctively leisurely way. A person with werewolf scars littered across their skin grinned as they spoke, making the vampire laugh.

The blond pureblood, entirely human, shuddered. Muggleborns were one thing. Even squibs he could handle. Creatures set his nerves aflame, however. His father had told him that if Draco ever saw a creature, he had to be as cold and businesslike to it as possible. That they did not deserve human courtesy as they, themselves, were not human. Perhaps he was staring too long, for the vampire grinned, fangs out. ''Hey, handsome. Come here and introduce yourself.''

Draco Malfoy ran in the opposite direction like a man being chased by a billion dementors.

Luck was on his side because finally – finally! – Draco Malfoy caught a break as he bumped into Hermione Granger and her magnificently all over the place hair. Just as he allowed elation and safety to sweep him off his feet, he looked a tad behind his best friend and saw a vampire, slurping horrendously loudly on the complimentary blood bottle. Hermione hugged him.

Draco Malfoy was face-to-face with an even more painful sight than a feeding vampire: a tall man with flaming red cowboy boots peeking from under his denim robe. There was a white hat, cowboy in appearance and Chinese in origin, on his head.

''Oh, Merlin.'' The young Malfoy muttered. ''I dodged a curse with that one.''

''Draco, it's good to see you!'' Hermione said upon breaking the hug, over-brimming with joy.

It was always odd to see Hermione in a robe when he knew the muggleborn witch favoured muggle attire. At school on days when they were allowed out of uniform, Hermione wore jeans and hoodies and asked Draco how he could stand wearing so many robes.

''I've never like dresses,'' Hermione had confided. It was around sixth year when he'd apologised for his younger self's behaviour. On prompt of his grandfather, mind, but still he had apologised and invited her over for Christmas break. She'd declined most profusely, calling it some sort of trap. However, Hermione did allow him to study with her. Out of good faith, to counter his family's bad faith*.

The witch now sported a simple, gold dress robe with black cats running around on the seams discreetly. Her cat obsession was nearly as bad his grandfather's peacock one.

The vampire – Lena – was wearing a crimson robe the colour of blood. There was spittle around her mouth, red. She topped off the blood bottle, more of the liquid splashing around her mouth in the process. In mechanical movements, the vampire crushed the bottle into a small plate, giving notice that she could and would if prompted do this to a human being. Hermione made a noise of aww at the trick. She winked. But then Hermione gestured the vampire's mouth and pointed out her problem. An unnaturally long tongue slithered out of Lena's mouth and cleaned her entire face with it.

''Am I clean?''

Confused and pale Hermione nodded, her voice strained. ''Yeah.''

Draco looked similarly put off. Lena sniffed him and Draco tried not to show the fear rolling off of him in abundance. It would do him no good to show weakness in front of dark creatures as animalistic as this one. Against his control he shuddered, and the vampire grinned.

''Lena, leave the youngins be.'' the cowboy – Montgomery Goldsmith, Draco amended – said to the vampire casually. ''Y'aint here to frighten kids, are ya?''

''No, I _ain't_.'' Lena said, fighting off laughter. She held her stony facade until Montgomery Goldsmith caught sight of Gilderoy Lockhart and said the man was as ugly stain on magical society as a buzzard's mangled corpse brought back by a snake to feed.

''Where do you get these phrases?'' she asked in Albanian.

''I just keep making things up in a loud voice. I hope it's American enough to pass. Lena, I have no idea what I'm doing.'' He returned in Albanian. ''I just need to fool one person and I'm fine.''

Lena and Montgomery led each other away from the children to a more secluded part to go over their notes. Out of the goodness of his heart (not because Montgomery had no fucking idea what to talk about), Hermione's mentor had accepted Lena's offer to co-up with her and talk about _runes_.

''Why runes?'' Montgomery had asked her, dislike apparent.

''What, should we talk about horcruxes? Things are dark now that should not be. Runes are never dark. They are a safe topic.''

''Why are you here, Lena?'' Montgomery had forgotten to ask why an arcane creature was mingling with humans and not feeding on them.

''I need money. My sisters disowned me for protecting you from their wrath when you burned down our coven.''

''It was an _accident_.''

''I know, son, I know. You were a mess.''

''I was not. Only after I had returned to Britain did the messiness of my life start to accumulate.''

''Why do you hide?'' Lena inquired. ''Hiding never solves things.''

''Hiding keeps me alive.'' Tom Riddle sneered. ''Hiding is all I can do.''

''Are you prey, then?'' Lena bared her teeth. It could be a threat, but she used to be human, so it could be a smile. It was hard to tell.

Tom Riddle looked at his dark arts mentor who had taught him how to kill easily and how to converse with darkness and creatures belonging to that domain, and said, ''I don't know what I am.''

''You're the talker.'' Lena handed him the notes. ''I will just stay close to help you out.''

''This is YOUR presentation, don't just give it to me!''

''You talk better than me!'' Lena said and it was a good point, actually. The talks were mostly all held in English. It would be counter intuitive and productive to have Lena speaking. It was time for American extraordinaire Montgomery Goldsmith to take the audience by their horns and ride that metaphorical bull on this conference rodeo. Yee-haw!

''Darn tootin I do.'' Lord Voldemort said, dead serious, and adjusted his cowboy hat.

* * *

''Hermione, your mentor is… a horrible dresser.''

''I think it's an American thing, Draco. His colour scheme is the same as the US flag. Like when you're proud of your House and you want to show it off. ''

''I don't dress in Slytherin colours.''

''You're wearing a green robe right now!'' Hermione pointed to Draco's Slytherin green robe.

''It's gaudy when Americans do it!'' Draco defended himself and Europeans all around.

''True.'' Hermione allowed.

* * *

After Abraxas' lousy reception with the Hogwarts staff, he had tried getting the sixth years to understand his woes. To them, he relayed the catastrophic meeting with Moody at the Ministry, earning a few sympathetic glances, until one Gryffindor asked him why Moody had asked him about knowing whether You-Know-Who was alive or not.

''I was close friends with him during school,'' Abraxas technically did not lie.

The Slytherins exchanged looks between each other and knew what their professor was doing.

''What was that like?'' A Slytherin who hated DADA and would do anything not to learn asked. She fluttered her lashes.

''Being friends with him?'' Abraxas tried to summarize. The students looked at him expectantly. ''At school, he would go to the Forest to talk to snakes, claiming that they were better company than people. I often accompanied him there. Honestly, it was the only place on the entire Hogwarts grounds that warranted some privacy, if you understand my meaning.''

The horror of the Slytherins and some Gryffindors showed that yes, they understood.

''Professor Malfoy, can we learn things now?'' the same Slytherin from before asked. So happy to learn now that she knew listening to her professor talk about his life was more traumatizing than listening to subject matter that disinterested her.

''Well, if you like. Let's talk about Inferi, children.''

* * *

After the quick photo session, Heidi abandoned Gilderoy, having finished her need of him. Gilderoy did not take it to heart, as he had felt the same way towards the German woman.

Now! To find his superstar.

He cast a quick locating charm with his wand. It was one of the few spells he could competently do. Then he followed the magical thread leading him to Draco.

Draco chatted up his biggest fan, Hermimmy something. Atta boy, superstar! Frolic!

Close to them was a man with impeccable taste in clothing similar to how Gilderoy Lockhart had dressed. The famous author showed off in a hot pink robe with cuckoo birds on the sleeves. They were just as big as Lockhart's ego.

''Draco, introduce me to your friends!''

The Hermimmy girl looked at him in awestruck familiarity. Gilderoy winked at her and she fell, as if hit by a killing curse. The vampire woman caught her, asking if this was a spell she was unaware of.

''That was Hermione,'' Draco introduced Hermione, then his voice wavered. ''This is Lena.''

Lena jerked two steps away when Gilderoy Lockhart tried to shake hands. ''Two metres distance at all times, shiny man.'' Lena warned.

''And the snappy dresser? Who is this Adonis?''

Montgomery Goldsmith was too busy looking at Hermione with raw disappointment to hear Gilderoy Lockhart singing his praises. Only when Lena elbowed him hard in the ribs did he raise his fake American head to look at Lockhart.

''What in tarnation do you want?''

If Gilderoy sensed the cool edge to the words, he did not let on. Instead, he shot his hand and grabbed Montgomery's without permission. A prickle of currant sparked, but died down when the dark wizard willed it out. Now would not be the time to cause scenes. Later.

''You have mistook me, good sir! I am Gilderoy Lockhart.'' Then winked.

Montgomery Goldsmith schooled his features in affability. He leaned forward in their encounter and said, sultry and pretending because causing a scene would do him no good. ''Howdy, name's Montgomery Goldsmith. Are y'all as excited as me to be at this event?'' Not allowing Gilderoy Lockhart to speak, Montgomery Goldsmith went on, because he quite enjoyed stomping down on his mentor rival's chance to shine. ''I'm as excited as a Dementor during public executions.''

''Ha!'' Gilderoy Lockhart said, snapping his fingers and pointing at Montgomery amiably. ''Brilliant, my good man! He wrapped an arm around Montgomery's neck and began to guide him towards a lounge where all of the speakers would prep. ''I recognize your name from the speaker list! I, too, am involved in the conference! Not just a guest either! I, too, shall speak to the masses!''

Montgomery Goldsmith refused to talk to people whose every sentence ended on an exclamation point.

Lena carried Hermione over her shoulder and followed the two hideously dressed men while Draco Malfoy tried to control his breathing and not panic in the vampire's presence. They reached the lounge, closed it on their entry, and then scattered in different directions.

Gilderoy went to talk to Heidi some more about when his performance would be exactly and if he could skip all of this listening nonsense.

Draco sat with Hermione and tried to ignore both Lena and the brunet vampire from before that was apparently a speaker. He waved at the young Malfoy. Lena asked Draco if he would wave back. Draco, feeling pressured from all sides, waved.

* * *

Montgomery Goldsmith – Tom Riddle – found himself face-to-face with the one guest speaker he had wished to avoid with all might. A redheaded woman with grey hairs littering her scalp in mismatched patches spoke in a lilting Irish accent, gesturing madly and waving her wand through the air as if in a didactic, teaching trance. The speakers all listened to her tales in wonder, captivated. She had always had such a power to keep other's attention.

A bubble of nostalgia grew inside Tom Riddle. He moved next to Lena, but Gilderoy snatched him by the arm and led him towards the witch of the hour.

Gilderoy grinned widely so his white teeth blinded those around him. ''Let me introduce you to our guest of honour. Resurfaced from complete isolation and seclusion! They say she's been fighting the aes sidhe* for the past few decades, though I am sceptical. What do you think, Monty?''

''I'd rather not meet anyone. I'm asocial like that. Anxious around other people. Panicky. Paranoid.''

''Nonsense!''

Trapped by social conventions of politeness and inability to apparate, Tom Riddle got at arm's length of Galatea Merrythought, his Defence professor during his time at Hogwarts.

Merrythought scrutinized him like she had as a young boy, reverting Voldemort to that state of being in his mind, pulling back memories from that period. The woman took a step forward, taking his hand in hers and shaking it, introducing herself even though he knew her name already. But perhaps she did not suspect! Though, that would be insulting, as Merrythought could see through anything. She had seen Septimus Weasley cheating on his OWLs and reported him; she had simply known that Abraxas Malfoy had locked himself in the spare DADA classroom when he'd tried to find his way back drunk after the _OWLs are finished_ party near the Hogwarts Lake; she had seen through Dumbledore's starry twinkles and glimmers when he'd interviewed her star pupil, known there was some personal vendetta the man had, not with Tom specifically, but with someone that he was reminded of when looking at Tom.

''You're a trainwreck, lad.'' Galatea Merrythought spoke in the same tone of voice she had only ever reserved for her favourite student.

Fuck, thought expert orator and Dark Lord in hiding.


	12. Put a ring on it

Abraxas Malfoy was having lunch with Thoros Nott in the Hog's Head, not because he liked it, but because many establishments didn't serve Death Eaters. Yet Aberforth Dumbledore, bitter owner and known goat lover, could not afford to turn down any business. It helped that the man hated Albus Dumbledore with a passion unknown to wizards and witches alike. They could talk as freely as two Slytherins could in public spaces. Normally, Abraxas would floo to Thoros' or vice versa, but neither could be bothered and a walk would do them good.

Thoros was Abraxas' oldest friend. A close second was Walburga Black, but she was not counted because she was toxic and had treated Abraxas as a sidekick rather than a friend. Not to mention they'd had a terrible falling out. Where Walburga said everything on her mind, no matter the hurt it would cause, Thoros picked his words carefully, as if any altercation with Abraxas would take away from his long wizarding lifespan. Abraxas counted on that when he said, "I have started a hobby, Thoros."

''This ought to be good,'' the man whispered. Abraxas raised his platinum brows, awaiting something to be said on his expense, but nothing was.

The Malfoy clapped once. ''As you may know, there is a lot of robes in my wardrobe. Some are simply revolting. Some, though, are still rather a la mode. Not in their natural state, of course. I just need help with picking proper _accessories_.''

Thoros did not ask why Abraxas had dragged him from his manor to talk about robe accessories. He simply ordered them food. Fish stew for himself and pasta for Abraxas.

"Should we make an outing of it? The more accessories you have the better, yes?'' Abraxas grinned when Thoros continued. ''Theodore has grown into such an amazing person. I'm proud of him, really. Has Draco written you?''

''He has! He's at this conference of sorts in Munich. Now, about this trip of ours. I was thinking we first hit the Ministry owned shops."

"Really?" Thoros showed his incredulity well, only by lilting his voice in a specific manner. Anything more would be undignified considering their pure upbringing.

"Mhm. They have brilliant necklaces. While I'm at Hogwarts, would you mind procuring me one?"

"What are friends for?" Thoros asked and tipped Aberforth when he came by with their food because he wasn't a stingy asshole. Tipping your waiters ensured that whatever they overheard would not be relayed later on. Aberforth showed his appreciation in a polite nod in their direction.

Thoros took the first sip of his stew when Abraxas idly commented: "I need you to seduce Dolores Umbridge."

Thoros tasted death twice in his life. Once when he was on a Death Eater raid in 1978 and now in 1998 when a piece of fish stew lodged in his throat and he hacked desperately for breath.

"The one time I don't have a healer on me is when I need one?" Abraxas said, voice panicked because, if his accomplice died, he'd need to speak to Lucius and Narcissa about this private matter. He waved his wand and a force of magic did the Heimlich manoeuvre for Abraxas.

"Are you joking?" Thoros pleaded, still among the living. " _Are you joking?!"_

Abraxas Malfoy quietly admitted that he was not and that, if Thoros did this for him he would do whatever the Nott wished. As the Malfoys have always been friends with Notts and this transcended want, it had become expected of both families to be interwoven.

"I want _them_ all brought to your Manor and I want them all burned! Fin! Ende!" Thoros Nott snapped. For too long, he had allowed a spectre to haunt his life. Now that he knew of his lord's living status, he wanted to help in bringing him down as much as possible. He had a son to take care of! What kind of father would he be if he allowed himself to take up a Death Eater mask and commit terrorist attacks? The 70s were a midlife crisis, if anything.

Abraxas recoiled and began to cough loud and painful, like a cat in February. "Don't say things like that. They're all I have..."

"Lies, you crow!'' Thoros shouted and then, remembering himself, lowered his voice in a hiss. ''You keep mementos and collect them like a bird that's got nothing else to live for but hoard and remember!"

Abraxas bit back a retort about divorce and abandoned children with terrorist fathers, and instead said diplomatically, "Thoros, if you do this for me I will let you do the honours when or _if_ I decide to be rid of them."

Thoros Nott, disgusted by his actions and the looming presence of a very much alive Dark Lord in hiding, sneered. "Fine." It would be easier to destroy him if his soul pieces were all in one place anyway. "Do you know where all of them are?"

"I think I do. Unless they have been moved..." Abraxas trailed off, pensive.

The Diary was in Malfoy Manor. Check.

The Locket was in Umbridge's custody. If Thoros did as told, they would change that quite nicely.

The Cup was in Bellatrix's vault. Abraxas was certain Narcissa could be trusted. Only a Black was safe in a Black's vault. That much everyone knew. Or a Lestrange, as she married into the family.

The Diadem was in Hogwarts. As Abraxas was in Hogwarts himself, he'd make a day out of trying to locate it.

The Ring was in Gaunt's shack, though that place radiated such powerful poverty that Abraxas Malfoy would dare not step one foot on the property. Never mind the potent wards and curses set.

"Your job will be to get the green one." Abraxas decided.

"What will _you_ do?" Thoros asked.

"Thoros, dear man, I live in Hogwarts. It will be a piece of cake to locate its item."

"Mh." Thoros had plenty to say to that, but didn't. And for that, Abraxas cherished him.

They finished their meal, shifting into mundane topics. Lucius was nearing election time. He wasn't going to win. The new politics would never allow a Death Eater to win, not even if imperius was claimed. Theodore was soon going to finish his healer program. Thoros was so proud of him.

"I don't deserve him, Brax."

"I understand that feeling well." Abraxas said, meaning Draco. That boy had been everything Lucius could not be. He would be a great Malfoy Lord when the time came, as long as Lucius didn't drive them and their fortune into the ground.

"You don't think you deserve Lucius?" Thoros asked, surprise evident. He looked through the window to see if someone might have enchanted some pigs to fly.

"Lucius doesn't deserve _me_ ," Abraxas corrected his friend's mistake.

"You overestimate your worth, Abraxas."

"Like most people do works of art." Abraxas winked, not allowing to show his uncertainty. He wondered if Thoros was not a Nott and if he was not a Malfoy would they have still been friends? If Thoros had had a choice in the matter.

Thoros snorted. Abraxas gloated, twirling his cane as they slipped outside. The Malfoy Lord then leaned on his incredibly indulgent friend, wrapping his free arm under Thoros'. "You are a good friend."

"Notts and Malfoys have always been friends. It is a duty now more than anything else.'' Thoros said, annoyed. At Abraxas' quiet retreat, the Nott Lord added, ''You left the peacocks on Malfoy ground. Why?''

''I am allowed one familiar to take with me to Hogwarts and I cannot choose, Thoros! It would be anarchy without mon Flocon to lead the rest of them.''

''Flakey?’'

''Flocon de Neige is his full name, remember. It means Snowflake in French.''

''Ah, the white one, right.''

''Oldest one, too. He's somewhere my age. I've had him since I was a boy.''

''Take him with you. It's heresy to part with your familiar.'' Thoros then whispered conspiratorially: ''Sic the pandemonium which is your enormous muster of peafowls on the world in your absence.''

"Oh, you know me so well!" Abraxas shouted, leaning and swaying them both as they staggered through Hogsmeade like drunks without a drop of alcohol in them.

"You loud man."

Whilst twirling the cane: "Tom's term of endearment for me in parseltongue was an exclamation snakes have when they encounter a human that screams in fear."

"You did scream as a boy a lot."

"It was how Walburga and I communicated." Abraxas said. "We were like bats."

"How any of her dormmates could still hear after spending seven years in an enclosed space with her remains a mystery..."

''Sound muffling charms.''

''Thank Merlin for those.''

* * *

Dumbledore reached the outskirts of Little Hangleton with no difficulty. Riddle Manor stood out like an eyesore with its decadent and corroding appearance. The wards around it were protective and distinctly Malfoy.

Wisely, because Dumbledore didn't get to be the age he was if he sought out danger needlessly, he absconded towards the Gaunt shack. Compared to Riddle Manor, it was in ruins, falling apart and crumbling in on itself. The wards set around the place were Tom Riddle; not yet the full monster which was Lord Voldemort.

Harry Potter had been briefed on Lord Voldemort. Moody and Dumbledore had seen the boy grow pale and resolute as the seconds ticked by. "I will do my best to win against him," the Boy Who Lived had said, like a true auror. Moody smiled proudly and said that he would train Potter himself to face off with You Know Who.

Dumbledore kept the secret of horcruxes to himself, as it would kill him to have an open communication with anybody about anything.

It was important to note that, since Lord Voldemort had not tried to do anything in Harry's first year, Dumbledore saw no need to give Harry his invisibility cloak. Did a child with no threat on its head **need** a _Hallow_? Harry had grown into such a biddable boy without it anyway. He was even an auror! It was like the boy wanted to be a tool! Who was Albus to deny him such a life?

Not to mistake this train of thought of Albus' as him hating the boy or not caring for him. Oh, no. Dumbledore was fond of Harry very much. He saw him as that one distant nephew he felt no obligation to but sometimes still saw on gatherings like meal time at Hogwarts and such.

So, secretly, Albus went out to try and destroy a horcrux.

It was how he found himself summoning large amounts of magic until it allowed him to fight into the building. Wheezing, he slipped to sit on the cold floor to catch his breath. His magic was powerful even after time and space had separated Tom Riddle from his ancestral home.

The not yet dying wizard set for the biggest magnitude of magic in the area. Right beneath the filthy, forgotten floorboards. Dumbledore took the Elder wand with worn, shaky fingers and cast to have them vanish.

A box, preserved and kept out of harm's way, glowed. Beckoning.

Dumbledore tried to spell it open, but it would not budge. The suffocating wards sensed his unwanted and disallowed presence, then. They put even more effort into their magic, stomping down on his lungs, going from warning to threat in no time.

The box would not levitate when cast to do so. The wards made Albus’ time run out so fast that he could not figure out how to counter the box's magic and get out of this place before the wards collapsed onto him fully. He lunged for it then, in a fit of desperation and Gryffindor bravery. He opened it in quick, vigorous movements.

The wards screeched like sirens listened to by a boy terrified for his life, hidden in a bomb shelter underground. Inside the box was the source of the foul excerpt of magic. Twenty-five percent of a soul was stored inside a small ring.

The Elder wand pulled Dumbledore to take it, sensing that the ring was not simply a horcrux, but a Hallow.

Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore propped the ring onto his finger and felt a ghostly caress over the back of his neck.

He heard his sister's voice calling to him. "Al, I forgive you. Al, it's all right. Al, don't fight."

His eyes scrunched shut. The creases on his face looked painful and guilt ridden.

Magic attacked. The walls seeped with hatred, ancestral. Of an heir scorned forever. Of an heir unforgiving.

Magic destroyed. The ring clamped shut and he could not remove it.

A spectre appeared before him, sixteen of age and a murderer. That was fact.

The place of the crime mere moments ago visited.

Tom Riddle's face twisted in a pleased smirk. Hubris gloating in his crimson eyes.

"Professor, I am your mortality." When Dumbledore did not do anything or say anything because he was in unbearable, crippling pain, the horcrux switched to Ariana's voice, syphoning the Resurrection Stone's power. "Al, Al! You killed me, Al."

Rage erupted from Dumbledore as he swiped the spectre with the Elder Wand, but the magic went through Tom Riddle. A ward was hit and the spell was flung back, knocking him down as a result. He wheezed laboriously.

The voice shifted to Tom Riddle: "Professor, know that you have brought this on yourself. Was it worth it, to die for The Greater Good?"

With the last bit of magic he could do before passing out, Albus Dumbledore disapparated from the Gaunt shack.

The wards stopped their loud noise.

The ring remained.

Tom Riddle laughed, softly. If the dark wizard could feel, Albus Dumbledore thought, this would amount to happiness.

But in his eyes, Tom Riddle would forever remain an emotionless monster, incapable of feeling anything other than hatred.

* * *

Tom Riddle felt anxiety grip him hard by the throat and slowly strangle him as Merrythought continued her peering. Then, when she saw that he would not say anything, she took it upon herself to tell him, "We shall speak later. Do not avoid me. I will find you."

"How's your wife?" Tom Riddle found himself asking. His voice cracking.

"Oh." Merrythought frowned, uncomfortable with the sudden shift in topic. "She left me for the Unseelie Queen to be her consort in court. It's a long story. I shall tell it to you later."

The faux American nodded and fled in quick strides to Lena for safety. Hermione was coming too with Draco by her side.

Lockhart was too busy schmoozing the most influential of speakers to notice anyone but himself. He laughed jovially with two Asian women. One was dressed in a flowery kimono and was talking slowly, deliberately choosing her words with care.

"It is good to meet you." She said with a bow. "I am Sato Kimiko, and my sister here is Sato Makoto."

The other woman nodded, dressed in a dark blue pantsuit. On her tie there was a flower in bloom, pink as a sakura blossom.

"Hello," she waved from her seat. Next to her there were two laid back men talking to each other; one was black while the other was Native American. They hissed in parseltongue with one another and laughed.

"What are you two beautiful ladies presenting?" Gilderoy Lockhart wondered and leaned close in Kimiko's personal space. She gave him a courteous smile and explained that her sister was here by herself just as she was.

"I am here to collect sponsors," Makoto said decisively, "for my research in melding magic with technology. I have a software engineering degree. Think of how we could benefit if we could use computers and technology! The world is embarking on a digital revolution and we need to keep up."

Gilderoy, i do not know what a computer is, Lockhart smiled and said that that sounded productive. Next, he turned to Kimiko and asked about her work.

"Transcendental apparition. Let's go to the moon! It is possible if done right and prepared for, as the muggles have shown us. Continental apparition is slowly gaining traction and the next logical step is the moon. We are magic; no necessity for spacecraft."

Gilderoy, i did not know we landed on the moon, Lockhart smiled politely and excused himself.

Meanwhile, Tom Riddle heard a distinctive hissing sound where Gilderoy had been seconds before.

'' _So, Lord Voldemort walks into a bar-''_ the Native American man started.

'' _I heard that one already,''_ the black wizard said, tossing his dreads over his shoulder.

'' _What about the one where Lord Voldemort finds a golden fish in a pond and wishes for immortality?''_

'' _Heard it, too. I think we've exhausted them all these past seventeen years, Askook.''_

'' _I think you are right, Kajo.''_

The fucking parselmouths were telling Lord Voldemort jokes and **laughing**! If the British heard them they would be appalled at the gall of them all to undermine the horrors they'd faced by making fun of their monster in the closet. Lord Voldemort deserved better than this! Lena grabbed his arm and calmed his magic, utilising her hypnotic vampire powers to do so. She told him to go on a walk and find their seats. Tom Riddle did this, if only to stop himself from killing in a public venue.

Merrythought sought him out when she saw him alone and tousled emotionally. She grabbed him by the underarm and led him outside of the spacious arena. It looked like a smaller, quieter quidditch cup stadium, sans the fanfare of sport and jocks. ''Let me start off by saying that 1948, for me, was a mere _month_ ago.''

The fairies had taken her, Tom Riddle instantly gathered, allowing the woman to lead him to a small garden area where they could sit. Time in Faerie passed slower than in the human realm. A month in Faerie could be fifty years in the human realm.

''I am seventy-one, professor. I am not twenty-one,'' Tom Riddle told her gently. He could not wrap his thoughts around the phenomenon of losing so much time in such a little span.

Merrythought regarded him with weary eyes that beheld kindness and affection, still. No wonder she could look at him like this; to her, he was still a student and not the mad, immortal wizard of everyone's nightmares. It put him at ease, if only until she gleaned into the past and understood his darkness.

''I know this. It confuses me, lad. Everyone keeps asking me about my time in New Zealand and I think it is the funniest euphemism for the fairy realm that I have ever heard.''

''Fairy propaganda to stop anyone from looking for you, then.'' Tom Riddle said. Then he inquired of her wife by choice, if not law.

''Beatrice is well. She likes Faerie and has decided to stay.'' There was bitterness as the aged professor spoke. She had retired to be with her wife, else she would not have parted with Hogwarts.

The shrubbery around them was stunning and littered with roses that shifted colours every five seconds, Tom Riddle noted to distract himself. It was akin to Narcissa Malfoy's projects. The Black had always been fond of aesthetics, rigid and clean. Not nearly as messy as Malfoys tended to be with their decor.

''Were you both taken?'' He found himself asking.

''No, it was only me. Beatrice came to my rescue and then was seduced to their side. The Unseelie Queen is a bigger catch, you see.''

''Oh.'' Then, to mend his professor's broken heart, he told her his romantic folly. ''I poisoned Abraxas.''

''That isn't something to laud.'' Awkwardly, the woman asked, ''What had he done?''

''I am mad, Professor.'' Tom Riddle said and to admit this to someone who could, if they so wished, bring him down frightened him like a fox in front of hunters. ''I had done upon myself horrid things that took my sanity piece by piece, each being less easy to part with.''

''The horcruxes.'' Her nonchalance with the noun set Tom Riddle overboard and he asked her if she knew what he had done in his fifth year with Myrtle Warren. She was the best Defence professor Hogwarts would ever see, his hypothetical self-included. How had he fooled her?

''You did _not_ fool me. I was aware, as was Dumbledore, but he had had no noun to use to get you a sentence to Azkaban. He had come to me as you often did for guidance or conversation. The wizard was in pain. War loomed. His lover was nearing the threshold of our Islands. He needed a win. To some, it's fighting dark creatures, and to some, it's hunting children and wishing upon them Azkaban. I did not tell him anything nor did I hint at it. I loved you, lad, like you were mine. Dumbledore could go bugger off.''

''Why!'' Incredulity and bewilderment both entangled Tom Riddle's jumbled words. ''How can you not condemn me when everyone else would in a heartbeat?''

''I cannot judge you or condemn you,'' she confessed and he listened, unaware of how much he had longed for her voice and guidance. Merrythought had taught Dumbledore as a boy. If anyone was the wise sage archetype, it would be her.

''It is the easiest thing to do,'' the wizard said. Even though Merrythought favoured him, Tom Riddle would not ask anything of her. The loyalty she had for him was unparalleled. Perhaps because he had always wished it of her, but had never dared ask. Loyalty was the mark of Hufflepuffs, the Hat had said.

''I cannot judge you for creating a horcrux because that is the only thing that kept me alive this past month – fifty years, what have you.'' Merrythought did not look away from his crimson eyes, watching as realisation struck like a clock on number twelve. There was no cuckoo to fly out, though instead Tom Riddle made an uncomfortable noise in the back of his throat and asked her how.

''It's cannibalistic.'' Merrythought clarified, blinking. Tom could swear he saw a red glint in her eyes. It did not clarify much, but it allowed Tom to begin to piece together what his professor had been up to in Faerie. If one were to eat their food, they would be trapped forever. It was their lore, after all.

''Oh my god, you cannibalized the fairies to circumvent their conditions.'' He cursed like a muggle, unaware of the lapsus. A swish of magic nearby did not alert either of the two mages, for it was the least of their worries.

''I devoured their magic.'' Merrythought pulled out a ring (wedding ring?) from her robe pocket and said that she had put it all in here.

''How did you not go **_mad_**?''

''After the second time this had happened, I learned to conjure food and drinkable water, since aguamenti tastes like shite. It was better than to lose myself in the power I got from creating horcruxes.''

''I made five.''

''Oi. Oi _fuck_ , lad. That's a lot.''

''It doesn't feel like a lot until you don't know who to trust and everyone is shooting killing curses at you.'' The man whispered sheepishly, divulging an excerpt of his madness to be picked apart. It was not.

''It is amazing, the feeling, when you make one,'' Merrythought confessed. The more powerful the magic of the victim, the more powerful the mage creating the horcrux would be. Lord Voldemort could not comprehend what doing so to a fairy would bring.

''If I could choose to make one right now without any repercussions, I would. Though, I fear creating another horcrux could send me overboard. It _is_ dangerous magic.''

The magical signature lurked. Merrythought looked in its direction, but chalked her instincts up as heightened and afraid from the month spent running for her life and watching over her back constantly.

''I need to find the cunt that created the first horcrux and have him fix me. Do you know how? I care not for immortality.'' Merrythought said, hopeful and wrong to presume.

''Last time I checked, he was in Greece on an island somewhere breeding basilisks.'' Tom Riddle tried to glance through the shrubs, feeling something watching him. He had a feeling what was happening and allowed it to happen, if only to continue his conversation with Merrythought undisturbed.

''Have you met?'' the ancient witch asked.

''I have not. Nor do I plan to. What I could do is ask around which island he is on and tell you.''

Merrythought smiled at Tom Riddle and pulled him into an awkward hug. He tentatively wrapped arms around her and let her hug him. It was him that pulled from the embrace first, when he had gotten enough of that. It confused him greatly. Up until this point, the only two people that had hugged Tom Riddle were Abraxas and Slughorn.

''HEY!'' Lena's protective voice pierced the air between them and, just as she lunged for Merrythought, the witch dodged, pulling out her wand and casting a protective shield.

''Lena, wait! We're all on the same side.'' Riddle tried for some sanity, but it eluded him and all of his compatriots.

''You were emotionally compromised,'' Lena said in Albanian and gestured Tom Riddle's salt-covered face, which he fixed soon afterwards.

Tom Riddle, in his defence, then said that she was as blind as a bat and how dare she insinuate that he, an emotionless creature of darkness moulded by hatred and anger, could ever feel anything other than the aforementioned.

Merrythought looked between Lena and Tom and asked what was going on.

''I'm his parental supervision.'' Lena introduced herself. Behind her, Tom Riddle was inhaling and exhaling slowly and deeply.

Merrythought looked betrayed. ' _'Lad_ ,'' she said softly.

''Lena's more of a father figure,'' defended Tom.

''Get with the times, son. I used to be a man and now I'm not.'' Lena said and then elaborated further for Merrythought, who was not aware of the long and arduous story of Lena's self-discovery. ''Funniest bit was I was born as woman. But due to circumstances, I was man for two hundred years. You are confused, let me explain. I used to be a Burnesha. I was fifth daughter in a family with no sons and my father decided I was to be his son. Did not consult me. Very rude. Usually you _ask_.''

''Uh huh.'' Merrythought made prompting noises to be polite. ''I'm happy you figured yourself out, Lena.''

''Thank you. Would you like to hear more? Talking helps accept.'' Lena exhausted her English and kept asking Tom for more words. He indulged.

''I mean,'' Merrythought shrugged and put away her wand, recognizing friend instead of foe in the situation, ''if you like.''

Lena opened her mouth to talk about her moment of epiphany, but then was interrupted by a shout.

''Everyone!'' Hermione yelled and all three adults looked in her direction as she ran towards them. ''We need to take our seats. They're starting.''

''We won't die if we miss a few introductory sentences,'' Merrythought mumbled, earning a fierce glare from Hermione. The old witch turned to Tom and whispered, ''Is this your granddaughter?''

''No, she is my apprentice.''

''Coulda fooled me. You're both nerds. Am I using that word correctly, I’ve heard it tossed around?'' Merrythought chuckled and asked Lena.

''You are!'' Lena laughed heartily and took to Merrythought like bees to coca cola. Now that she knew the witch meant them no harm, Lena unwound and adopted a familiar relationship. Tom didn't think too much on it, aware of how his dark arts mentor was beyond help.

''Professor Merrythought, Lena, please stop.'' It was illegal for them to gang upon him like this.

''Boo, you insufferable _nerds_!'' Merrythought shouted at both Hermione and Tom.

''You are not cool!'' Lena joined in. ''You are the opposite of cool!''

Hermione didn't know how to feel about two old ladies jeering at her like this. Neither did Tom Riddle, for that matter.

* * *

Antagonists, because the story really needed some outside source of mischief to further along the plot, gathered behind curtains to view the attendees and watch out for their target. Draco and Hermione conversed, sitting at the same table. Two old women laughed at each other and kept elbowing one another cheerfully. Gilderoy Lockhart was sitting next to Lord Voldemort in a cowboy hat and denim robe, with red boots peeking out. Neither spoke a word to one another and instead sat in unnatural silence.

''Let's snipe him,'' a woman's voice said, wand out and taking aim.

''No, no, when he is on the podium.'' A Spanish accent seeped from the other woman, stopping her from shooting. ''He will pay for his crimes. We will enact revenge for all of the lives he's ruined and we shall make it public!''


	13. Choose your own (adventure) wand

The Hogwarts staff had quite a few things to say when asked about the teaching credibility of one Abraxas Hyperion Malfoy.

He showed up to class late with coffee and a look about him that promised he'd woken up minutes prior. His robes were so ostentatious that it was unknown whether he wore sleep robes to class or proper ones one would expect from an esteemed Hogwarts professor.

Flitwick saw him batting away at things that weren't there, although most chalked this up as the curse (jinx, whichever) of DADA attacking him and his poor tenure. Once, he'd fallen down stairs and, instead of making sure all students were out of harm's way, he'd snagged a sniggering student's robe with his cane and plunged them both downward. Ginny Weasley was near the scene of the crime and had levitated them both just in time to save them from dying horribly, with broken necks and the like. Abraxas Malfoy looked positively elated as he handed out twelve thousand Malfoy Points to her, which, in turn, gave her loads of monetary gain. Ginny, being smart, was not above taking the cash.

Luna Lovegood said that she enjoyed his classes for the knowledge gained. She was an outlier and should not be trusted, Minerva McGonagall said as writing her off. They used the same hair products, Minerva had found out from Luna. It was to keep their platinum hair silky and magical.

''You think I seduced Tom with my academic prowess?'' said the DADA professor that had failed DADA and been forced into begging Tom Riddle, known as the Slytherin mudblood at the time, into helping him pass. ''HA!'' Abraxas Malfoy exclaimed and twirled his hair in his finger, curling it absentmindedly with a fond smile on his face. ''I assure you he was much shallower than that!''

This was information none of the Hogwarts staff wished to hear, least of all Minerva McGonagall, who was trying to lead her friend down the correct professor path. ''You can't be like this anymore, Abraxas. Pull yourself together.''

Abraxas smiled fondly at the professor and remembered the day when she fell into a life debt with him. ''Say, Minnie, remember that time when I saved your life-''

''Yes.'' she cut him off.

* * *

1981, Early May

The worst part about war so late in the game was that everyone had already mastered all the offensive spells they'd thought of learning.

The Order of the Phoenix fought diligently against Death Eaters. Neither party was willing to back down, even though both were decimated more day by day. Street battles throughout Diagon Alley had by that time become a common occurrence. It was a wasteland compared to its once splendorous sight. The cost of rebuilding had been great. Not a civilian soul was in sight. Aurors spread through the street like ants.

Minerva McGonagall remained close by Alastor Moody. The air crackled with electricity and magic intertwining. She held her wand close to her chest and breathed calmly, trying to fight down stray feelings of fear clawing at her throat and ushering her into screaming. Sometimes she felt so lost, so despondent.

Alastor Moody lost his mind slower than the Dark Lord, but both continued going down their respective paths towards madness and paranoia. His eye twitched and the mechanical one swirled.

She had found herself in this battle all by happenstance. Even running errands had turned into war. Fuck Albus, Minerva thought strongly, fuck him and his bloody errands.

Lord Voldemort stood in the centre cross way between Knockturn Alley and Diagon Alley.

Bellatrix Black was next to him, his whip to lash across enemy backs. His general to destroy all manner of defences. Her eyes were vigil and _sharp_. More Death Eaters scattered about and waited in hiding.

Minerva breathed. Alastor tried placating her in a very small whisper. ''Miss McGonagall, don't fret. While you're fighting with us, there's no reason for fear.''

But without fear, Minerva wished to shout, there could be no reason.

''I find myself flattered,'' came the beautiful voice of a Head Boy Minerva remembered. ''Aurors and illegal formations alike,'' looking at the Order members, ''thank you for this abundant reception.'' His white yew wand moved and those inhuman red eyes scrutinized. From within it flew a turret of spells, each nastier than the last. All aimed at Alastor Moody and, therefore, her. Minerva cast a shield spell. Alastor fired from their spot, unmoving. Not yet. His eye searched for openings.

The Prewett brothers, Gideon and Fabian, surged into battle first, emerging from shops. Moody's aurors stood on their mark.

Minerva felt nauseous but she forced it all down. Her job was to maintain that shield for her life depended on it.

''Bella, be a dear.'' Voldemort said and an offhanded gesture was made to signal the young woman still so freshly out of Hogwarts. Minerva remembered teaching the Black girl like it was mere days ago. She remembered her quick wit and worried when her billowing form advanced towards them. Most were masked, but she wasn't. It was a show of her pride and full acceptance of everything that came with being the Dark Lord's right hand woman.

Her breathing quickened.

Just her luck to walk in on an ambush attempt to finally reign in Lord Voldemort. Just her blasted luck!

''LONGBOTTOM!''

Before Bellatrix had shattered Minerva's shield with her and her Death Eater's power, Alice Longbottom jumped from out of an apartment building with a tied up Abraxas Malfoy, silenced via magic and bound by stronger stuff. Scrapes crossed his cheek and Minerva didn't put it past Alice to slap that man's loose tongue off.

Lord Voldemort glanced at the hostage, to Bellatrix, and then to Moody. His face was unreadable. Minerva hoped that Moody had things under control because none of it looked under control.

Debris fell from stray spell casting. Everyone froze in their spot, turning the battle into a waiting game. Tonight was apparently supposed to be some sort of Death Eater raid that had been intercepted. Severus' doing, definitely. She was proud of him for switching sides when it mattered.

Minerva watched, fascinated by Abraxas Malfoy's muffled words. He fought against the silencing spell. No one could ever doubt he wasn't a proficient wizard. Best at wandless magic, certainly. It was the laziness of taking up a wand and swishing it that had him innovating himself. They'd been amiable enough during school and had fallen apart when war came and Tom Riddle's politics turned radical.

She didn't wish him harm. But neither did she wish his beau freedom.

If lowering themselves to dirty tactics like these won them the war, then so be it. Minerva looked at Alastor and told him to tell her what he needed her to do. He gave her a lovely look and said that, for now, she should manage the hostage with Alice.

So she did just that.

''His freedom for your surrender,'' Moody announced.

Alice held Abraxas Malfoy and watched, searching out for her hiding husband still in formation, and the Death Eaters that didn't know what to do. They were not the hydra. When their leader's head was cut off, they all toppled down like marionettes with their strings cut.

Lord Voldemort smiled a hidden politician's smile warped and dipped in war and death. He looked from Moody's mismatched eyes to Abraxas' frightened silver. Minerva watched those crimson eyes and tried to find any semblance of man inside that monster. Any trace of a soul.

''The war is more important, Abraxas.'' Lord Voldemort aimed the yew wand of legend at him. Minerva's eyes flew open. Bellatrix laughed and rallied the Death Eaters into counterattack.

Moody had made a mistake, Minerva believed, in thinking that the man had an inch of humanity left in him.

Alice Longbottom pushed Abraxas Malfoy away from herself, remembering that she had a child and a husband to come back to. She pivoted on her heel and fired a jagged hex straight at Bellatrix's chest, incapacitating her and earning her never forgetful ire that would cost Alice her sanity.

Abraxas fell backwards into Minerva's arms who held him and, without thinking, sprung up another shield, this one more potent as her magic, fuelled with adrenaline and a will to survive, ushered and pushed and encouraged it.

Fire enveloped Diagon Alley. It ate at shops and exterior. Gnawed on people. Screams filled the air. Minerva's shield cracked under the weight of the fire until she realised that it was fiendfyre and she hadn't a single water affinity in her magic.

Abraxas Malfoy did. She freed him and grabbed him so he couldn't run without taking her along wherever he deemed safe. There were anti-apparition wards in place so Lord Voldemort couldn't flee. So none of them could flee. Minerva shook and hissed out an order like the cat she was. ''If you want to live, do something!'''

He made a stance and swirled his hands in a circular motion, bringing forth magically conjured water to strengthen Minerva's shield with. Hers cracked and it was only him saving them both.

Once the wards fell, eaten whole by the fiendfyre snake desecrating their surroundings. Abraxas lowered his shield and grabbed Minerva's hand in his, disapparating them both to Malfoy Manor.

Upon landing in the brightly decorated living room, she immediately asked him, ''Why did you save me?''

''You untied me and unsilenced me. Alice Longbottom's cast was too strong for me to break out of in time.'' Abraxas lied. In truth, he did not know why he had saved her. ''I suppose I didn't want anyone near me to die.'' This came closer to the selfish truth. ''I don't want anyone's death on my hands. Doing nothing when I can is worse than killing you myself.''

A silent apparition didn't tip Minerva off to a third member joining their conversation.

''He shot that— that curse straight at you!'' Minerva shouted, shaking not in indignation but at the thrill of being alive. His words turned hollow and the old witch inhaled sharply and exhaled. They all tired of the war, they all wanted it over. To whichever side, war was cruel

''I did.'' came a new voice. Minerva turned around and stilled.

Lord Voldemort's robe was black with soot and his eyes were red as the flame he had cast and left in his wake destruction unbound. ''Abraxas, why did you save would-be Madame Dumbledore?''

''Because I secretly work for the Order of that blasted Phoenix bird, Tom!'' came the sarcastic reply. Minerva blinked at it. Voldemort seethed at the usage of that muggle name.

''You could have killed me!'' Abraxas snarled.

Voldemort dismissed that. ''Don't be ridiculous. We practised what to do if you ever got taken hostage.''

''You didn't even hesitate, didn't even give me enough time to prepare. Longbottom's spells were harder to shake off than I prepared for.'' Abraxas accused.

''That was your mistake.'' Voldemort turned to Minerva, but still spoke to Abraxas. ''Why did you take this mangy cat here?''

''I wanted to go _home_. Cat or not.''

Abraxas told Minerva to leave if she wished to live. Knowing that under Malfoy wards Voldemort was most protected and powerful, Minerva knew when to retreat. She disapparated.

* * *

The staff room had three professors inside, discounting Minerva and Abraxas. Snape was trying to ignore everything around him as he was preparing pop quizzes that would leave many children in tears. He sat to the far corner near the window and snickered mischievously at the evilness of his test. Being a Death Eater never _really_ left you. Not even if you only joined to spite your muggleborn friend by joining an organization that targeted them maliciously all while secretly harbouring feelings for said muggleborn friend who’s never seen you as more of a friend, now terrible acquaintance who laughs at _kill the mudblood_ jokes.

''Minerva, honestly!'' Abraxas Malfoy shouted, not the least bit willing to back down. ''The children love me!''

The children love him, Pomona Sprout thought as eavesdropped, reading a textbook and pulling out information for tomorrow's lesson, because he doesn't bloody grade them.

Which was true, actually. Abraxas Malfoy remembered stressing about school and tests and OWLs and NEWTs (though NEWTs less so, as he'd been under Tom Riddle's study schedule that year and passed swimmingly). Why would he ever put even more children through such a thing? DADA, for this one year while Abraxas Malfoy would be teaching, was a class to unwind in. They'd have conversations about the material. Given the pureblood's knowledge of dark spells, he knew enough to satisfy the bare academic minimum. No child in his class would fail!

His plan was fool proof and undisputed until one day he'd seen a child (sixteen, but still) struggling with arithmancy. Just when Abraxas had finished cultivating his nonchalant, dumb and rich blond appearance, something he was actually good at had to resurface and taunt him. He couldn't _not_ correct these fallacies and misconceptions. Especially because he was a genius at this branch of magic. Was this how Tom Riddle felt like all of the time?

''You're supposed to multiply, I think.''

''No, no. Divide by Pi.''

''You can't bloody divide by Pi, can you?''

''Add a logarithm and hope for the best.''

''I'll just write an infinity sign and call it quits.''

''YOU'RE ALL _SO_ WRONG!'' Abraxas Malfoy had shouted and it carried through the whole classroom. His class looked at him, bug-eyed. This had been the first time he'd ever tried teaching with passion in his voice, a demand and a need to have others learn. It was the first time something had happened in DADA class that could be considered teaching.

Then, in extensive detail Abraxas Malfoy took out his wand and wrote on the blackboard, using a chalk spell. By the time he'd covered the entire blackboard in scribbles and equations, his sixth year class was looking at him in awe. It was like they saw him as an educator.

''Could you teach us Arithmancy instead of Defence?'' One brave soul asked. She wore yellow and black.

''Well, given how you know nothing, apparently I must!''

Minerva McGonagall told him that he could not, in fact, teach Arithmancy because Hogwarts had a perfectly qualified professor.

''With all due respect to Vektor, she's not all that. She doesn't know how to add logarithms to her arithmancy calculations and this saddens me,'' Abraxas said. It was a wicked burn. Someone needed to cast an aguamenti on that incendio.

Pomona Sprout bit her lip from letting out a small 'Oh my' and outing herself. Vektor, who was seething in silence close by Snape, took out her wand and demanded they set this dispute aside for good. ''Arithmancy math off, let's go!''

''I'm both a mathlete and a former quidditch athlete - you've got no chance at defeating me!'' Abraxas Malfoy declared arrogantly, as an arrogant aristocrat.

So, that was how the student body found themselves anticipating a battle in math (without which advanced arithmancy made absolutely no sense). The Hogwarts staff was even rowdier, placing bets and selling enchanted badges. Minerva, as she was acting Headmistress, pulled out before placing her entire wage on Vektor. Snape put a galleon on Abraxas because he remembered him being able to best Lord Voldemort at the magic.

* * *

1981, late October

Lord Voldemort was scribbling on a piece of parchment angrily. Abraxas Malfoy peered at him and smiled in a very smug I'm-better-at-this-than-you way.

Severus stood off by the side with the rest of the Death Eaters. He controlled his mind to stop from leaking how terrified half of the time he was of being found out.

''You're wrong,'' Lord Voldemort hissed, anger mixing with the unhinged.

Abraxas laughed at him and rolled his eyes. ''I know I'm not. You simply don't want to accept that Divination is hogwash. If you truly wish to pursue it, may I suggest going to the Longbottoms? My calculations do not err. Perhaps if you stepped down from your throne of lies, my lord, and listened to others, you might not be _losing_. ''

Severus had widened his eyes, even after being taught that any sign of emotional turbulence could out him. Nobody talked liked that to their lord. Nobody dared. If their lord didn't make quick work of the irreverence, surely his right hand woman would.

''Perhaps,'' Lord Voldemort stood up, ''I simply don't want to be led into a _trap_.''

Abraxas had balked at the implications of _that_. Before he could go after Lord Voldemort to hear why such strong words were said, he signalled all of the Death Eaters to disapparate with him to a raid.

* * *

Most, out of solidarity because Vektor would remain as professor and Abraxas was leaving in a few months, bet on Vektor and cheered her on.

This exercise in human condition was amazing proof that, when Albus Dumbledore wasn't around, the school erupted in even greater chaos. Minerva, deep down inside, was better at making sure children didn't die, but let adults do what they liked on the condition they didn't maim each other.

She was wrong in thinking math could not leave people maimed. At the very least emotionally, as math tended to do.

The competition consisted in both Abraxas and Vektor getting equations to solve and whoever did it first would get points. There were five in total. Not to bore everyone with the details as the author sucked at math, too, Abraxas was in the lead.

This angered Vektor, because honestly, who was this mess of a wizard that thought to beat her at her own subject? It was ungallant and disgraceful.

Children cheered on their favourite, most chill of all professors.

''Professor Malfoy! Wooho!"

"Get her!"

"You can do this!"

"You're amazing!"

"Please give me Malfoy Points, I need to buy my girlfriend something nice.''

Abraxas turned, in the heat of equation solving, to take a quick glance through the crowd and spotted Luna pointing at Ginny. He gave her a thumbs up, much alike a gay Ceaser saying that queer romance was wicked cool. With that done, he went back to annihilating Vektor.

Any adult man in his 70s would have told Vektor she was the better professor and would not have agreed to this madness that would no doubt leave one professor deeply humiliated - but, there was one thing nobody accounted for when dealing with Abraxas Hyperion Malfoy…

He was a petty little shite.

Tom Riddle attested to that. If he were there, things might not have escalated to this level as he acted as that couple's impulsive control - which was a sad thing to say, as Tom Riddle had no impulse control. His many horcruxes proved that. Abraxas had more control, some thought, but he merely chose not to utilise it. Which was worse.

Abraxas won five-to-four. He crutched towards his opponent and outstretched a hand to shake hers with, out of good sport. Because he wasn't petty when he won. When he had things go his way, he was graceful and kind and could sweet-talk himself out of any scuffle.

Vektor looked at Abraxas and shook hands with him, giving him a glare of a lifetime. He coughed and knew worse days for his health were to come. It was life telling him he'd fucked up, but apparently that was not enough, because Vektor told him that this was not over. Not by a longshot.

Abraxas Malfoy was too ill to be having mortal enemies. Moody was enough for a lifetime.

''Is it over if I stop undermining you in front of the children?'' Abraxas asked with a bright, false smile.

Vektor sent him an even bigger glare - how that was in human capability eluded Abraxas. Through gritted teeth, she said, ''You cannot possibly undermine me more.''

Abraxas Malfoy scoffed then and unapologetically said, ''Dear, if I wanted to, I could have made you quit your job out of shame. This was me being _nice_.''

''Professor Malfoy for Headmaster!'' came a voice, followed by applause. It never ceased to amaze Severus Snape (who had never been popular in his life) how life was a popularity contest. Abraxas Malfoy seemed the most equipped to tackle that kind of life.

Vektor stomped away.

Malfoy shrugged, coughed, and went to the crowd of his adoring students, who only liked him because he paid them to behave in class, and let them do whatever they wanted.

In moments like these, when the Hogwarts staff became privy to Albus Dumbledore's worst decisions come to life, they had to wonder whether or not having Tom Riddle as their colleague would have been less painful.

The answer was, naturally, an undeniable _yes_.

As no one ought to be faced with a bored Abraxas Malfoy that knew his days were numbered. He was a trash fire that tumbled into the street and could not be extinguished. He was that seaweed one's foot touched and wished to never touch again, but knew the possibility of touching it was bigger than not.

While Abraxas left surrounded by loyal students who got grades they asked for instead of deserved, he caught a sight that would have stopped him dead had it not been for his students' insistent pushing. He felt a suffocation that he came to liken with the jinx's presence. He couldn't see it, but its magical presence was unmistakably Tom Riddle. Haughty and powerful like he'd been in their youth.

It was tangible enough to get physical with him – that push down the stairs was proof enough. He was still not over that. It had made him want to throttle Tom Riddle's corpse, but alas he could _not_ do that, because Tom Riddle had to be a dramatic fuckwit and not die normally.

From out of the corner bubbling with students, peeked out a form dripping, ink-like tendrils of magic pulsating and magnetizing. It was primed and connected to him as he was the Defence professor. That was what Abraxas thought in the small, miniscule span of time he was allowed to see the jinx (curse, whichever)

Its crimson eyes peered intently at Abraxas and when he opened his mouth in a small gasp, its head twisted apart to reveal a smile filled with jewels, glistening and reflecting light like ancient heirlooms.

Abraxas blinked and the spectre was gone.

His students' cheers sounded just a tad less comforting than they had before.

He needed to see Thoros.

* * *

Dolores Umbridge was a wicked woman, thought Thoros Nott as he pretended to like going on dates with her. She wore her pink cardigan and he wore a robe because he wasn't a ministry official sell out and still remained pureblood as ever. Though, he gathered quite quickly if he said this to her the woman would not let him anywhere near her boudoir, where she no doubt kept his lord's (not his lord) locket.

Her idea of a fun date (the third and final one, if Thoros played his cards right,) was taking Thoros to the neighbourhood where Fudge lived. Obviously, Dolores was not over the man and wished to make the minister jealous.

Much alike how, in another universe, Fudge would pretend that Voldemort was gone and had not come back, in this universe, he pretended he did not see Thoros Nott walking about with Dolores Umbridge on his arm. However, Dolores refused to have that happen to her. She made them pass by his home three times in the span of an hour. Her voice carried and Thoros Nott remembered that he was doing this all because he was a foolish man that had been marked by an even more foolish man.

Finally, Fudge opened his terrace window and looked down from it. Umbridge flaunted Thoros Nott like arm candy. ''Ha ha!'' the mad woman shouted. ''I have moved on from you, Minister!''

Was this some odd bedroom play? Thoros wondered as he took in the scene in front of him, silent like a grave. Did they call each other by their ministry titles?

By the time Umbridge's plan to make her real beau jealous had ended, Thoros Nott was hoping to go home and relax with a nice book. But alas, Dolores wished to take him to her bed.

The insides of her home were exactly how Thoros had imagined. Pink walls had cat plates plastered over them. The cats watched them keenly. This was why Nott hated going to girls' homes for this sort of meeting - he never knew what to expect. Would there be a dog pouncing on them both as if it wanted to join in? Would there be ten thousand cats? Would the girl herself turn into a cat halfway through by accident because she was still new at the whole animagus thing? Thoros Nott simply did not know what to expect.

Umbridge undressed herself like a tease, which - again - was not something Thoros particularly cared for. He kept his eyes on the prize; in this case, the Slytherin locket.

Weren't there horrible side effects to wearing a horcrux? Thoros Nott wondered and tried to recall when he'd ever spoken about it with Abraxas and his lord.

The only ones that were in the know-how about the horcruxes were Abraxas and himself. Thoros, much alike half of the things that happened to him, had found out by sheer accident.

* * *

1981, October 31st

Thoros Nott was a hip, young fifty-four year old wizard with a promising life ahead of him, as long as he didn't manage to get himself killed in the line of Death Eater duty.

Having returned bloody and in great pain, Thoros reclined on a white couch in his best friend's manor as it had been the assigned rendezvous point. He could hear Abraxas arguing with someone. The sounds were muffled and the voices obscured by clattering of glass and spells.

The floo close by beckoned. Thoros tried to stand and go to Nott manor. His feet wobbled and betrayed him. He plopped back onto the couch and wished for better feet. Hell waged outside. War decimated their wizarding population. Mages dropped left-to-right. Purebloods were most mourned.

Chaos raged and Thoros didn't like thinking this, but he thought it, nonetheless: perhaps he'd made a mistake in joining their lord. He was one of the few people left alive that remembered sneering Mudblood at him as children in school only could.

''My lord!'' Thoros Nott said and dropped to his knees, no propriety and superiority left in him after the draining battle.

Lord Voldemort was mad. The insatiable instability was prominent in those potent, crimson eyes. He gripped the white, yew wand with powerful fingers that sizzled with restless magic.

His lord ignored his existence wholly. It was either pretend or lack of sight on his part. With how muddled his lord's brain was, Thoros wholeheartedly believed that perchance he wasn't even noticed. Those with his mark were automatically _his_ and incapable of being disloyal.

It was a lack of oversight, overconfidence, and horcruxes destroying his sanity sliver by sliver that had Lord Voldemort believe that.

Abraxas Malfoy emerged from wherever they were. Thoros lifted his gaze to look into the furious eyes of his best friend. His non-dominant hand was bloodied and his other hand gripped his wand just as tightly. There had been no cane to rely on back then. He hadn't a need for it.

The two wizards watched each other for what felt to an exhausted, terrified Thoros like ages. He remembered them as best friends during school and wondered what had caused this deformation in their relationship. This animosity and distrust promised nothing good to come.

Thoro's mark **burned**.

Intense and saturating and difficult, like the cruciatus curse and their lord's mental undoing.

''It is not your place to demand I go along with your calculations,'' Lord Voldemort sneered. Abraxas Malfoy raised his chin in pureblood posturing. He would not be intimidated in his own home. Thoros could not believe his eyes as they watered with tears and he bit back sobs threatening to wrack through him. ''It is not your place, _Lord_ Malfoy,'' and Thoros Nott felt like he'd been slapped instead of Abraxas with that formality, ''to demand anything of me. Am I understood?''

''You will lose, Tom Riddle.'' Abraxas said, certain and cold like a vengeful ocean storm. ''Arithmancy doesn't lie. Divination is not fact!''

A small muscle contraction in Voldemort's jaw told Thoros that any other man would be lying dead on the floor by speaking so openly and mockingly. Abraxas Malfoy had always been a dangerous thrill seeker - this much all who played quidditch with him knew. The man skidded through the air in deathly speeds and flung himself at the throes of bludgers for fun.

''Heed my warning: that prophecy won't bring you anything good.''

A laugh escaped from Voldemort as he craned his head to give a disdainful glance Abraxas' way. ''Why would I ever heed a warning from a turncoat such as yourself?''

There were obvious signs of a spy in their midst. Dumbledore knew things he should not. The aurors appeared on missions that ought to have been kept secret. Minerva McGonagall was friends with Abraxas Malfoy, who knew all of the leaked information first, as he acted like Voldemort's confidant. Even Thoros could not fault his reasoning.

Except for the small, _miniscule_ fact that Abraxas Malfoy was not actually the spy.

''Don't, then.'' Abraxas shot back cruelly. His hands were filled with tremors. ''Know, however, that without my help, you would be nothing more than that orphan **mudblood** , Tom Riddle!'' Then Malfoy's hand twitched painfully and his wand fell out of his hand, landing with a soft thump to the carpeted floor.

Voldemort sneered at the pathetic gesture and turned around on his heel, going to disapparate. But then, much alike how those people that always had something to add to a fight, he turned back around and hissed, ''I hope you've enjoyed the wine.''

Thoros didn't look at the pale, knowing eyes of Abraxas Malfoy in that moment. Instead, he glanced to where they'd emerged both and saw a table with plates and wine glasses, one broken and the other untouched.

His lord disapparated. Abraxas collapsed onto the couch and shook, his magic fighting whatever had attacked him. Blood poured from his mouth and boils gently sprouted onto visible parts of his body. Abraxas pulled back his late autumn robe and recoiled at the sight of pox, large and varied. Dragon Pox, both knew before either could speak.

''Five was too many... I should have insisted he stop...'' Abraxas wheezed and doubled over in pain spreading from his chest and scattering throughout his entire body.

Thoros remembered scrambling to his poisoned friend's side just as hurriedly as he tore the necklace from Dolores' sleeping form and left a mock, transfigured copy.

* * *

The locket horcrux hissed; magnitude of energy building and building and attacking him into submission. It was like being in his lord's (NOT HIS LORD) presence once more and it terrified him.

He needed to see Abraxas.

* * *

Jumping right back into Munich, everyone gathered at their respective tables. Merrythought and Lena were arguing about duelling techniques. Lena preferred to destroy things with her bare hands whilst Merrythought said that duelling without a wand was fruitless.

Hermione and Draco were sitting right next to each other and paying attention to the presenters like good little students. It was ignored, though, in favour of conversation, especially with how Hermione kept asking Draco about Gilderoy's habits and such. ''I mean, you're working with a celebrity.'' Her eyes glowed fiercely, in love like girls were in love with a favourite band member.

Draco looked resigned. ''I'm disappointed in him, Hermione.''

''Why on Earth!''

Then Draco unloaded all of his woes to her in hushed up whispers so his mentor didn't overhear. He told her how he'd learned absolutely nothing. ''I fetch him coffee.''

''Well, he's probably-''

Draco spoke over her and pleaded for her patience with a simple look of desperation. ''I sign his autographs for him. The best thing I've ever done was stop a few very weak and disorganised wizards from robbing us? It was really cool, but now that I've had time to think it over, there is something undeniably fishy about it.''

Hermione nodded to appease rather than to signal understanding. ''But you're ghostwriting his book!''

''And you learned occlumency and bloody _fiendfyre_!''

''Well,'' Hermione said and took immense joy in the next spiteful and cruel and so deserved thing she said, ''if you hadn't been a wanker and switched our mentors, our positions would be switched. This is Karma, Draco. Don't pretend like you don't deserve it.''

They lapsed into silence.

* * *

Gilderoy Lockhart, meanwhile, spoke and spoke and spoke and spoke to Montgomery Goldsmith, who looked just about ready to kill a man with his bare hands and out himself as Lord Voldemort. Though, he would probably be thought of as a comedian impersonating Lord Voldemort by the parselmouths giggling at another table and telling horrible, terrible, catastrophic jokes about him still.

" _What did Lord Voldemort say to baby Harry Potter?"_

" _I know this one and it's sick! How dare you even mention it?"_

Lockhart moved about his wand and flicked it through the air to keep his hair primed and his skin perfectly hydrated. It was a spell that, when used, would simply have the skin absorb just enough of what it needed to be in optimal condition. Belinda Goyle had thought of it. Tom Riddle recalled his once classmate whose affinity for spell crafting was unrivalled. When in such a crowded environment with so many mages willing to exchange knowledge and learn, Tom Riddle couldn't help but feel _un-whole_. He didn't mean his lack of a whole soul, that had never been a sore topic for him – no, he meant a lack of a wand. The yew wand was missed.

The Sato sisters had done their work well. Merrythought was excited to find out that they'd landed on the moon and she already wished to pay them all to fund that expedition. ''I didn't know we landed on the moon!''

''Ha, ha!'' Gilderoy Lockhart had added. ''I knew that wasn't common knowledge!''

Tom Riddle was more interested in the technological aspect of their presentations, really. Computers seemed like a smart thing to be on board with; if he had money, he'd fund that. Alas, he had no rich aristocrat to pay things for him anymore.

There was a vampire, Gunther something, who had patented a spell to check for blood disease in patients and wasn't going to sell it for a small price. Draco avoided eye contact with the man. Lena said he knew him, and that he was worse than Tom Riddle when it came to whining.

''Thank you for your inspired words, Lena.'' Montgomery Goldsmith had drawled out like a proper Southern belle.

Merrythought had choked on her mineral water.

Askook was up next to present a technique on how to shorten the time spent creating an animagus form. This did not interest Tom Riddle in the least, so he mostly scribbled on a piece of parchment. It was a snake he doodled and crossed out when it looked more like a string than a proper snake. Next, he tried to draw a peacock, and it came out looking like a chicken. Crumbling the paper into a ball, he vanished it and his lack of artistic skills along with it.

Hermione was scribbling away notes upon notes during every presentation. She reminded him greatly of when he was her age and full of a want to learn everything. Knowledge is power, had been his mantra, but power corrupts. That second part was a realisation that came with age.

The final presenter was a Croatian named Lucija Marić. It was an ungrateful position. People were getting hungry; some wanted to drink. Everyone wanted to leave the conference room in favour of enjoying the after party. Tom Riddle less so, because he was never one to enjoy inebriation and loud music.

Lucija had made it her duty to talk about wands. She was older than she looked - which was a mood Tom Riddle could understand perfectly.

She was of the belief that Ollivander's and most West-European wandmakers were wrong. At this, Hermione's furious scribbling throughout the entire presentations had stopped dead mid-sentence. His apprentice had flicked her gaze up to the witch on the podium, so sure of herself even among a crowd of confused mutterings.

Merrythought leaned forward to listen. Draco eyed the woman sceptically. Lena punched Gilderoy Lockhart hard in the arm to silence him. Their entire table was enraptured by the topic at hand. _You didn't just call Ollivander **wrong**._

At the undivided attention she received suddenly, Lucija smiled. Tom Riddle commended her lack of fear of public speaking. That was hard to shake off. It had taken him prefect speeches and occlumency to get over his initial discomfort.

''Who here has had their wand choose them?''

Nearly everyone raised their hand.

''A wand ought to be something that is _indisputably_ individual for each and every witch or wizard.''

Hermione looked at her vine wood wand and had a realisation that the wand could have chosen someone else that was compatible.

''Wands shouldn't have such autonomy. Why should a child suffer because its wand has ideals and goals that are considered dangerous and ambitious? There is magic in a wand that pulls the witch or wizard. Powerful people have powerful wands, but children should not have such a burden upon them."

Someone, Montgomery didn't know who, cast a cricket spell to make sure that the presenter knew people were not supporting this.

He didn't feel bad as much as utilitarian when he raised his arm to contribute and bring the witch's depressive mood up, if a bit.

Witches and wizards around him used wands, and when not in such a wandless community that Zorka and Montenegro had, Voldemort missed having a wand. He liked the grip, the power, the conversation his magic had with the magical conduit that had chosen him.

Yet this time, if he could choose, Tom Riddle wished to choose his own destiny. He didn't wish for yew with which he'd killed to gain his horcruxes and the wand whose conduit had cast the green unforgivable only to bounce back at him.

No, he wished for a new wand for a new life.

Not devoid of killing or torture mind, but one that had no brother wands to complicate his life with. One that didn't fight him every step of the way after he'd split his soul too many times for its liking

''How much does it take to make one?' Tom Riddle asked, ever remembering his lack of money.

''I could make you one right now in front of you.'' Lucija said. She jumped off of the centre stage and moved towards their table, taking out a small, shrunken chest form out of her pocket. Unshrinking it, she began to ask Tom Riddle questions about his magic, how it behaved, what his previous wand had been made out of. All sorts of things Tom Riddle didn't mind answering. Like Europeans cared for Voldemort enough to know every detail about him.

Tom Riddle had put off getting a wand for years. At first, it had been a way to train his mind and temper his magic by his own means. Then, when he'd gotten clarity back and could speak proper English (only to realise his interlocutor knew shit English), he decided to wean off of wands as they were nothing more than dependency.

Alas, he missed duelling. Being around his Defence professor (one that'd taught him duelling) and his dark arts mentor (one that'd taught him how to destroy his opponents) had made him nostalgic.

Lucija brought him back from his thoughts. A crowd had formed around them to see her working. The parselmouths were bickering in parseltongue. Their bickering stopped dead when Lucija asked him if there was anything his magic felt a connection to. ''An animal? A tree? Compatible material works best for wands.''

''I'm a parselmouth.''

All of the parselmouths narrowed their eyes and thought about all the things they'd been saying whilst thinking that nobody could understand them.

'' _Excuse me,''_ Askook said, _''do you have any new Lord Voldemort jokes? You may have heard we're running low on them.''_

'' _His entire existence is a joke.''_ Lord Voldemort answered back in form of a self-deprecating joke.

The parselmouths hiss-snickered and promptly accepted him into their gang.

Lucija rummaged through her bag and took out vials of venom to set on the table. ''Pick your poison. Which one feels closest?''

They all felt like venom. He was starting to think that all wandmakers were brain damaged.

Tom Riddle allowed trickles of magic to run loose around his fingers as he gripped each vial and inspected it with a bored expression. They all looked identical and translucent. For all he knew, water could be in there. The first and second gave no reaction, but the third one did. His fingertips sparked and the liquid bubbled as if boiling.

Gilderoy Lockhart let out a loud gasp. No wonder – the man probably never felt what magic was like aside from an obliviate. Lucija snatched the vial from his grasp and muttered a few words in Croatian in a dialect Tom Riddle had absolutely no idea how to decipher.

''Good,'' she said and took out sticks. ''What wood was your previous?''

''Yew.''

''Fickle wands, them. I don't recommend ever getting fickle wands because they've minds of their own, but we all differ in our trade.''

Someone asked what the laziest wand was, the least uncooperative and, without missing a beat, she said, ''Orange tree. Most agreeable tree I've ever met.''

The way she spoke of all of her materials was akin to speaking of good friends. Lucija knew her trade, or, at least, she knew how to fool people into thinking she knew it.

This next part was very similar to Ollivander's. Tom took pieces of wood and didn't feel anything. This seemed like a harder, more frustrating way to pick a wand as it wouldn't speak back at him.

Cherry wood. Not a chance. Ebony. _Almost_. Pear. Nope. Olive. HA!

Lucija began to sweat because of the pressure placed upon her shoulders to do this one thing right. If she did and proved that her method was brilliant, her business might boom.

''Yew's a possessive wand,'' Merrythought said as if trying to help out. Lena kept out of it, not caring much for them.

Hermione added her bit of knowledge, never afraid to speak up. ''It's very temperamental.''

''Mine disagreed with me,'' Tom Riddle lamely added. Orange. Definitely not. Alder. No, no. Elm? BYE!

Lucija flickered her gaze up from her bag from which she was taking out an infinite amount of woods. ''You want control over magic, then?''

''Is that too much to ask?'' His exasperation elicited a few good natured laughs out of the audience watching the process keenly.

''I think I know a good wood for you. It will only cast for its owner.'' She thrust a dark piece of wood into his hands and clasped his fingers over it.

Compared to the others, Tom Riddle thought as he weighed the wand, this one was lighter. He said this and Lucija beamed, snatching it from his fingers before he could even ask what that meant. With nimble fingers, the woman measured his wand arm and said that about thirteen inches would do him well. Hearing no complaint, Lucija took the wand and spelled it to the agreed length. Next, she used her wand to inject the venom into the wood while chanting in a very strange, old Slavic tongue.

Once this was finished, she handed the pieced together wand to him.

"Give it a flick."

"What is it?" Tom Riddle grasped the wand in a loose grip.

"Acacia, 13 inches, unyielding. Aker serpent venom core."

The parselmouths ooed.

Makoto Sato inquired as to which aker serpent it was. There were three kinds, as far she recalled.

"That opal one. I forget its English name," Lucija said.

"Ah, the gay looking one," Askook said, snapping his fingers until he got the name: ''[Iqerus](https://themonsterblogofmonsters.tumblr.com/post/167956899342/hemtet-iqeru-jagw-aker-serpent-magical)!''

All of the parselmouths nodded and Tom Riddle didn't know what to say to that.

He flicked the wand made for him and felt magic course through him fast. It pumped and pushed and wrapped around the conduit. Sparks didn't fly and flickers didn't appear. Yet after almost eighteen years without a wand, it felt so right to hold this one, even without a reaction as obvious as the previously mentioned. Tom Riddle knew that it was his and didn't mind not having others see it too.

Gilderoy Lockhart struck a pose and snorted at the wand. "It doesn't work! Obviously the woman is a charlatan."

Ignoring Lockhart, Lucija said to him, "Cast."

Tom Riddle took aim and fired a silencing spell right at Lockhart's face, toppling him down. It worked like a charm.

Silence stretched for a second into two. Then Draco Malfoy started to laugh and it spread like contagion.

Everyone jumped at Lucija and started to ask her questions and gauge her fees. A hard hand of hers landed on Tom's shoulder as she thanked him for helping business boom. "Wand is free for you."

"Thank you very much." The not American tipped his cowboy hat.

Amidst the question taking and the awe, Tom Riddle aimed his wand at Merrythought and gave her a hopeful grin.

"Won't you duel me, professor?" He looked as elated as he'd been on the Hogwarts express for the first time. Except this time, there wasn't any pureblood supremacy to confuse the living shit out of him and, consequently, bring his mood down.

No, that part of his life was definitely over. This new wand proved that. He was going to reinvent himself.

Though,

Voldemort just hoped this attempt went a little better than the first time he’d tried doing this sort of thing.

* * *

There was one important thing to remember with eleven year old Tom Marvolo Riddle. He had made a promise to himself and that creepy old man that had set his wardrobe aflame, as if that wasn't bloody traumatizing. He promised to be a model student and a person everyone should look up to. This meant that Sucker Punch Riddle was going to bloody well retire. Being an orphan and a Woolwich kid meant that a lot of conflicts he had, he had dealt with physically.

Not anymore! No, NO! He had a wand now to do all of the battling for him. If tested too much, Tom thought about jabbing people's eyes out with it.

Yes, that was exactly how this was going to go down. But only as a very last resort.

With words Tom vowed to fight! Words and passive aggressive silence!

This was also a way to finally meet likeminded people. No more being ostracized for being different or unworthy or looked down on. They were all magic. Tom smiled in anticipation to all of that sense of belonging and equality. He positively jumped with joy.

Yes, he foresaw that Hogwarts would definitely be better than the orphanage in all conceivable ways.

He got in an empty compartment, took out a book to read, and tried out a few spells along the way. Everything was so interesting! It was like living in a fairy-tale. No more Mrs. Cole! No more Billy Stubbs!

Tom was done with that part of his life. The time for reinvention was now.

That was why, when a blond boy in an equally black robe as his entered, Tom planned on introducing himself and trying to make a friend. Because that was what reinvented people did.

The blond sat across from him and had an anxious look on. Tom scooted backwards into his seat in case this boy started to vomit so it wouldn't hit him.

Finally composing himself, the boy practically shouted, ''Hello, I am _Malfoy_ Abraxas, pureblood son and only heir to the Malfoy fortune.''

Tom Riddle opened his mouth to introduce himself to this very posh wanker.

Abraxas talked over him, not allowing him a single sound out. Orphanage Tom Riddle would tell this posh prick off, but this was reinvented Tom and that Tom didn't want to pick fights with people that had shit sense at social conduct. ''Now that we have that out of the way, I would like for us to be friends, as I am in serious need of them. This is my one chance to get some that I haven't known since I was an infant.''

Tom could relate to that. The orphanage kids were all idiots.

''However,'' Abraxas Malfoy raised his finger in a very commanding manner, ''we've got to agree on some very important things.''

Tom Riddle thought about speaking, but decided not to, as this guy was comic gold and he hadn't seen a freak like this in such a long, long time. So, as an answer, he nodded.

''Excellent. Number one is that we've got to hate mudbloods. They are awful creatures that should not breathe the same air as us proper, well-bred wizards.'' Abraxas looked to Tom for an answer.

''Yes.'' Tom Riddle, who had absolutely no idea what mudbloods even were, nodded. ''Those guys are the _worst_ ,'' he said in the poshest of voices his Woolwich self could muster. It seemed to work as Abraxas Malfoy was pleased.

''Secondly, you must be nice to my betrothed.''

Tom Riddle tried very hard not to bust a gut at the seriousness of the blond across from him. He looked absolutely ridiculous, because he was resembling a very adult man in a small child's body with a squeaky, high pitched screech of a voice. ''Sorry _wot_?''

''My father created a betrothal contract between my future bride's family and mine. Oh, I am grateful, do not mistake me,'' Abraxas Malfoy looked ill and Tom Riddle grimaced, ''but my beautiful bride just...mows me over. She never lets me have thoughts of my own. Goodness, I had to flee from her!'' Then, when realisation struck him, he amended, ''Do not tell her I said this, please! Be a good friend.''

''I don't even know who she is, mate,'' Tom Riddle said.

Abraxas didn't look a bit convinced. He narrowed his grey eyes and said that everyone knew of their betrothal. ''All in wizarding Britain know. All of the _purebloods_ know – what is your family called?''

Tom Riddle wished to say that he had only recently found out about all of this when the compartment doors flew open and an eleven-year-old girl in a black robe with black eyes, black hair, and a Black demeanour entered.

Back then, Tom Riddle had had absolutely no idea that he would be meeting the worst possible incarnation of Satan – yet there he was, staring into Walburga Black's cold, yet so, so angry eyes.

Her gaze tore from him and landed on Abraxas, who looked just about ready to curl up and die as he gave her a sheepish smile. ''ABRAXAS MALFOY!'' Her voice boomed and Tom swore that the magically protected glass window of the train cracked, just a tiny bit. His brown eyes widened.

''Walbie, dear girl of mine!'' Abraxas fumbled for words and shuddered when, in one quick glide, Walburga was face to face with him, inches apart.

''It's not nice to run away from your future wife. This is the kind of behaviour I should write your mother for!''

Tom Riddle, being an orphan, had never been witness to a domestic dispute. It was entertaining beyond measure. He set the book in his lap down on the seat and made a dog ear to bookmark it.

''Walbie, I didn't run away. I-I simply lost sight of you!'' Abraxas lied inexpertly. He sweated and shrunk into himself.

Walburga smiled. It reached her eyes and was inhumanly stretched. ''Do not lie to me, Abraxas.''

''We are not joined at the hip!'' Abraxas made a mistake and stood up for himself. Walburga disallowed that sort of thinking. It was her word or no word at all.

''NOT YET WE AREN'T, BUT I SHALL FIND A SPELL FOR THAT!''

''Walbie, please, don't!'' The man dissolved into a puddle of needless begging. Walburga lapped it up like a Dementor did despair.

Tom Riddle realised that this was too sad to watch and took up his book to continue reading. This was an omen telling him that he wasn't meant to make friends, not when these kinds of oddballs took up his reading time.

Walburga sensed that they were causing a scene in front of a stranger and wrinkled her nose in disgust, already prepared to wage verbal combat with another. ''Who are you?'' the question was polite and phrased in a very ladylike fashion. Tom Riddle could have easily mistaken Walburga as a princess-y sort.

Tom set his book down and outstretched his hand, remembering his manners because he was bloody _reinventing_ himself. ''Tom Riddle.''

Both the witch and wizard recoiled. Abraxas more because he'd tried propositioning an unworthy wizard to be friends.

''YOU'RE A MUDBLOOD!'' Walburga Black screeched and grabbed hold of Abraxas as they backtracked quickly and disorganized. He fell over her. She screamed at his incompetence. ''GO, QUICKLY - LEAVE! WE NEED DISINFECTANT SPELLS!''

''On my way, I'll fetch Orion, Walbie!'' Abraxas Malfoy's voice wobbled as tears pricked in the corner of his silver eyes. ''Oh, Merlin, I almost touched _it_. Oh, how disgusting! Ew!''

Walburga Black crawled backwards and seethed. ''STAY AWAY FROM ME, YOU FILTHY MUDBLOOD!''

Walburga rose to her feet and stomped into a sprint towards where her friends were.

Tom Riddle was in his corner in his empty compartment, staring in disbelief. Wisely, because Tom Riddle knew that getting himself involved with these kinds of people would probably lead to mental exhaustion, he vowed to keep to himself.

A knock came to his compartment door and Tom was just about ready to vacate the premises himself if those two came back, but it was a merry looking kid, also in black robes. He, like a sensible boy, outstretched his hand in greeting and said, ''Name's Nobby Leach. Were you called Mudblood just now?''

''Tom Riddle,'' he answered. ''Yeah, what's that bloody mean, anyway?''

''No idea, but I wanna find out. Got called that, too.'' Nobby Leach grimaced at the dramatic behaviour of purebloods. ''Posh wankers, that lot.''

Tom Riddle hissed a laugh and invited Nobby Leach to sit with him. The other obliged.


	14. Lord Voldemort is the best comedian ever

The only way for a wizard to forge a real connection with his wand was through duelling. It was an art that bonded wizard and conduit. Born from necessity and then cultivated into showmanship. Taught in schools by Defence Professors around the globe and then updated and honed by one's own will. One of the oldest traditions of any magical community. Though, a good foundation was paramount for success.

Merrythought brandished her own wand, aspen with a unicorn hair core. She waited for Tom Riddle to do the same. He twirled his acacia wand in his hand as if tasting its feel. To cast spells for the sake of spellcasting took little thought. To duel? Now, that took calculation.

Tom Riddle had always been a solid student. Listened to instructions. Found a twist on said instructions. Caused chaos when paired with Nobby Leach. Caused greater chaos when paired with Abraxas Malfoy. It took her a long time to realise that the only person that didn't want to antagonize him during Defence was Elektra Lovegood. Sharp mind on that one.

Lena stood off to the side and sat on the ground. They'd apparated to a field not far from a forest, very far from Munich. It was for safety reasons. To grapple with one's new wand took effort and time.

Merrythought prepared to pace herself as she had spent the previous month (fifty years?) duelling and fighting for her life against ferocious fae. She had practise, her wedding ring whispered and Merrythought added mentally, also immortality. That was another thing that needed getting dealt with.

''Might you ask around your parselmouth crew about the whereabouts of that immortal wizard?'' Herpo something was his name, wasn't it? Merrythought forgot. She'd read his original texts a long, long time ago.

''Sure.'' Tom Riddle obliged easily. Good student.

The start of any duel was to bow. Merrythought taught this rigidly. First years fumbled with bowing. Second years got better, third years continued excelling, fourth years did it mechanically, fifth and sixth years did it pro forma – and then she told seventh years that, in REAL duels, bowing only made for stalling.

''If your lives are in danger,'' Merrythought taught seventh years, remembering the way Abraxas Malfoy leaned sleepily on Tom Riddle, who stared, wide-eyed, lapping up her every word, ''it hardly matters if you bow before dying or no. Don't bow when duelling for your life. It'll only buy your attacker more time. Then you need to play dirty and use everything in your power to win.''

She'd paired herself up with Tom Riddle because he was the most advanced and examples were best made on him. He remembered every fumble, every fib, every failure and victory.

Lena leaned forward, pressing her elbows on her thighs. She watched them keenly in case something got out of hand. It was always good to have an objective party present at any duel. This was common sense, but Merrythought made sure that everyone could recite this rule at the beginning of every duelling lesson.

''Do you want to deflect?'' Merrythought asked because she was here to help, not desecrate.

''I'd rather cast first,'' came the answer.

They bowed because this was a controlled environment. Lena sneered at them here: ''Get on with it!''

Merrythought prepared herself, casting a shield nonverbally. Wandless magic was harder than it looked. Only Sacred Twenty-Eight bothered with indoctrinating their children with such notions of superiority and grandeur. Key was to be silent, because silence made for unpredictability. Aspen raised to block acacia.

Tom Riddle slowly sized up Merrythought and lunged into an attack, like a snake pouncing for the kill. Merrythought's shield fizzled when hit with a jagged periwinkle curse she identified as a dehydration hex. Usually done whilst tidying up something filled with water, but it could take down a person.

She curled on her heel and pivoted, taking up her wand and flicking it. A jet of white light surged for Riddle and he dodged it like a dancer. Around his form sizzled a cloak of curant. Faint, but nonetheless it was still there. She'd noticed it during his first year, as it was most prominent then.

''Pause.'' Merrythought said and Tom Riddle asked if something was wrong.

''No,'' she answered. Lena demanded the blood match continue. Briskly, Riddle explained to Lena that it wasn't a blood match, but one out of good sport. It looked like another layer of skin. Fascinating. ''Can you explain to me what your first deliberate spell was?''

There were children born in less-than-ideal homes that wanted to be invisible and would channel their magic (long before knowing what it was) into making them so. She knew that the boy had grown up in an orphanage, but it surprised her to see what his go-to magic was.

Dumbledore chalked it up as another reason for his malignant behaviour.

Tom Riddle scrunched up his face in thought, tapping his wood against this open palm. ''My first spell?''

''First deliberate magic,'' Merrythought corrected. Children usually didn't cast spells. They cast magic until being told they were spells.

''There was this incident in a cave when I was nine.'' A grim line formed on his scaly face. ''It was the cruciatus curse.''

''You did it wandlessly,'' Merrythought simply stated. Lena's brows quirked up at this conversation. She joined them, complaining about her aching knees whilst doing so.

''I was tired,'' came the confession. ''I wanted them to stop bothering me. It was survival of the fittest.'' Currant sparked again over his body and Lena grabbed his shoulder then, to test her something. A spark shot through her and she shouted in pain. Merrythought quickly cast a healing spell on her hand and the currant fizzled out. ''It also felt good.''

Merrythought asked him how that worked, gesturing to his cloak. Sometimes it was there, but sometimes it wasn't.

''I don't particularly enjoy being shoved around.''

Merrythought remembered a scrawny eleven-year old with bitterness in his eyes whenever he had to speak to people bigger than him. She didn't bring up the obvious; he'd not had enough resource to grow up well and, if he didn't have Hogwarts and Nutrition Potions, he wouldn't have achieved what little he had managed. Magic helped, but only so much.

''Can you control it?''

''I'm not in some isolated bubble, professor,'' he rolled his eyes, _''honestly_.'' To prove his point, Tom Riddle retracted the currant layer from his body and it moved into his knuckles. ''I've always wanted to try simply punching someone with the cruciatus curse. It's so...blunt!'' joyfully the wizard exclaimed.

''Is it always on?'' Merrythought pushed. She needed to know. Children that turned invisible and children that protected themselves could be excused, but if it transferred into adulthood, it needed to be dealt with.

''No.''

Merrythought, being a Hufflepuff, could always tell when Slytherins lied. It wasn't always on in the sense that it was always visible, but it was always there. It simply needed to be triggered.

''You have an abundance of magic to be able to keep this shield intact.''

''It doesn't ricochet spells, professor. It simply stops people from grabbing at me without first giving me time to adjust.'' It was the exhaustion, the defensiveness that made Merrythought drop the subject.

They returned to their duel. She sent a hex; he blocked it with a simple protego. They cast nonverbally after. It was she that mostly cast in offense, gauging her pupil's reaction time. A sharp, jaggedness shone in crimson eyes. What effort he took to holding up his glamour fell away and returned him stronger, faster, and more vigilant.

Acacia suited him. It was a wand made for individuals. Merrythought remembered fairies talking about trees like they were alive – and they were. Wand trees hosted fairies and fairies left lingering magic to be harvested into conduit craft.

A slicing spell split off a lock of Merrythought's long red hair. She didn't mourn it, having too many things to take care of. Her ring hissed. Her soul hissed. Remembering how she got this piece of dark magic done sent a shiver down her spine and tangled bile in her throat.

Lena watched them both and prepared to step in if the need arose. They'd left Hermione with Draco and told her they'd be going for some coffee to catch up.

As Tom Riddle skidded through the grass and the mud in an attempt to charge Merrythought, Lena couldn't help but think: some coffee, all right.

She hexed his shoulder because of his inexperience. A hiss fled from his lips, morphed into a painful snarl. The currant sizzled again. Lena was reminded of a banged up Christmas tree whose lights only worked sometimes and, even then, never all of them.

Merrythought gave him time to gather his wits. She didn't ask him if he needed help. Lena thought that cold of her. Riddle stood and got back in duelling position.

''How's the wand?'' Lena asked Tom. She noticed that in the heat of battle he would freeze. Floaty dancer Tom Riddle never froze. He charged, he conquered, and he triumphed. Watching him duel was one of the most beautiful sights Lena had witnessed in her age.

''It's fine.'' He lied. Or maybe it wasn't the wand that was the problem. He sent a curse, dark and coloured in strong greys at Merrythought. She recognized it – so did Lena – and before the nasty boil starter landed, Merrythought disapparated and apparated right behind Riddle. With a single swish, his hands bound with conjured up chains, but then wandless magic had time to shine and he broke from them.

Her eyes sparked. ''I see the Malfoy was good for something, after all.''

No one could ever question the wandless prowess of Abraxas Malfoy. It was good to know that her pupil took advantage of the aristocrat. Gods know Malfoys took advantage of everyone else.

Tom Riddle forwent his new wand and summoned fire to his hands. He sent it cascading through the air straight for Merrythought, who shouted, ''This entire exercise is about getting your wand to work for you. It isn't about winning.''

These words of wisdom sparked frustration in his movements as he took back the acacia into his hand and put out the fire. ''It's strange.''

''Get used to it.'' Merrythought never mollycoddled a single one of her students when they were impressionable children and she wasn't about to start now when one was in his seventies.

''It's completely different than my old wand.''

''How so?'' Lena pipped up. Merrythought and Tom turned to look at her, finally seeing her properly. Their spectator in grass.

''My yew wand was like my hand.''

''Don't think of it as such,'' Lena lectured. ''A wand is like a pistol.'' At Tom's blank, look she asked, ''Have you shot?''

''No.''

''Eh!'' Lena raised her arms in the air and called it quits. She was one of those teachers that, if the metaphor didn't work, stopped teaching altogether. Incredibly frustrating for one Dark Lord in training who could never relate to her metaphors.

''What's troubling you?'' Merrythought cast a small, innocuous spell at him which he deflected with ease. ''Just immerse yourself. You were never this wary in a duel before.''

''The last time I used my wand against another person...'' He stopped, cut himself off on purpose. His cheeks boiled with humiliation.

''Was when you cast that spell on Lockhart. Proficiently,'' Merrythought said.

The look Tom Riddle speared his professor with told her that he did not consider Lockhart a person worthy of worrying over.

"The Potter family.'' Lena remembered. Merrythought was in Faerie and did not know.

Her instincts seemed to pick up on his deflation, his humiliation, his fear of being found out. Yet he nodded distastefully, angrily at himself. ''Yes.''

''I haven't had a wand since then.'' His words came out calm and crisp, but the noise in the back of his throat that threatened to growl each time memories resurfaced would not be taken lightly. Merrythought sheathed her wand back into her sleeve. His fingers caressed the acacia wood carefully.

They sat together in the field. Night dawned on them soon. The cool air swept them up. Lena heard critters and saw farther than either of her human companions. Her eyes glowed like a cat's did upon reflection.

''Did you kill since then?'' Lena understood that the fear of Death crippled her pupil. ''Anything.''

''I severed a snake's head with a wandless slicing spell.''

''What's killing got to do with his lack of freedom with wand magic?'' Merrythought wondered genuinely. Lena explained that sometimes, when terrified of death, one found control in bringing it to others.

''You make me sound infantile with such a description,'' Tom Riddle seethed. He picked up some grass and threw it at Lena, who put up her hands to block it.

''How'd you even kill the baby?''

''I didn't.'' Tom Riddle closed his eyes and said. Ire and rage and wrath and discombobulating existence. Merrythought placed a firm hand on his shoulder.

''What did you use – killing curse, yes?'' Lena pushed.

Tom Riddle opened his eyes. ''Yes.''

''You need to cast it.''

''Last time I cast it—''

''You had a different wand and some miracle baby. I hear he's survived it again.''

Uncomfortable was a good word to describe how Tom Riddle looked at Lena bringing that spectacle up. Her lips pulled back in a laugh. ''Was that you, too?''

''I didn't cast it.''

''What do you think will happen if you cast it? Even while you have a blockade for _a_ spell, your wand will sense it and stop you from truly bonding with it. This is why children get their wands so early. They haven't got any notions of wand work and spells and priori incantatem or what have you.'' Lena waved off her pupil's fears and continued, ''You need to cast it. It shows in all of your other spells. They're weak. You're pulling punches like a child that's afraid of getting punched back.''

Merrythought decided to stand up. ''If you're scared of casting on a baby, I've got just the thing.'' She said this the way a salesman would pick another item to try and pitch when a customer was not amused by the first.

She conjured up clay birds.

''Can you make one a peacock?''

''One day, you're going to have to explain to me how such a lovely couple like you and Abraxas dwindled into this.'' Merrythought made Tom vow he would. Satisfied, she demanded he use his wand to destroy the birds.

''Reducto?''

''Ha.'' Lena shimmied up to them. She was the shortest of the three. ''No. Use green killing curse.''

''What if it flings itself back on me again?''

''It happened to you once and now you're never going to properly cast because – OH – it MIGHT fling back at you?'' Lena mocked. Merrythought joined her. They jeered him and it was unfair for his mentors to gang up on him like this. It should be illegal.

''I fought fairies!'' Merrythought used this as her go-to excuse for one-up-manship. No problem could ever rival. ''In Faerie! For fifty years!''

''It felt like a month to you, shut up!''

''For fifty years!''

Lena joined up. ''One hundred and seventy years of total confusion and putting myself in a role I don't fit all for the sake of my family's notions of what a family means – and you can't cast a silly killing curse? Try surviving that, Tom!''

Feeling incredibly pressured by his two mentors, Tom Riddle took up the acacia wand and then promptly disapparated away.

''COWARD!''

''Come back here, lad!''

* * *

When Montgomery came back to the conference area, he was taken by parselmouths who wanted him to go drinking with them. The parselmouths were introducing themselves. Most of them were speakers at the conference, as this was a rare one that allowed parselmouths to participate.

"The discrimination hits you hard, but you become numb to it over time." Kajo then began to ask Montgomery where he was hiding and how none of them had heard about him.

"Yes, Goldsmith," Askook asked, "where _have_ you been?"

"Montenegro, mostly. Albania for a few years. The States other times." Tom Riddle lied, like a liar. The best kind of lies were those with truth mixed into them. He'd never stepped a foot in the USA, nor did he plan to for that matter.

The Sato sisters were parselmouths, too. They, however, were taught that parseltongue should be kept private. So, they mostly spoke in English. ''It's not something you broadcast,'' Kimiko whispered. Makoto added, ''It's better to be silent than to be sneered at.''

"That's another thing they teach you," Askook debated. "Parseltongue is a curse. It's Satanic."

"Yes, I heard that one constantly. My caretaker (care? what bloody care) was very religious." Montgomery needn't lie. Mrs. Cole was a catholic with a penchant for telling him he was in leagues with Satan. He was definitely not. Tom Riddle believed Walburga Black to be Satan in human form and she hated him.

Their families talked some more. Sato's mother asked him if he was married.

Makoto Sato narrowed her eyes and hissed in parseltongue: "Mother, stop trying to marry me off to any parselmouth you come across."

"I am married to science and the pursuit of knowledge," Montgomery said. It was his usual way of revealing his lack of attraction towards mortals.

Without knowing how exactly, during the party Tom Riddle was toasted. Then toasted back.

After a few drinks, Tom Riddle and the parselmouths were all buzzed. Or at least he was. Kajo looked perfectly fine until he had to take a step forward. Then it was Askook that was playing the age old 'catch the drunk' game.

Tom used his wand often, casting innocuous spells. It was a way to get himself used to the movement again.

Merrythought and Lena came to the party with Hermione. She was with good, albeit difficult, people. They would protect her whilst he was living it up. There was a contract he'd signed with blood (not Lord Voldemort's, but rather this new body's, so it couldn't reveal him). It was standard that no harm would befall Hermione form his own person. What a strange thing to need, but then again, with his track record of dealing with slow people (''Avery, you fucking cunt I gave you one job.'' ''My lord?'' ''Crucio!''), it was good to be assured.

The Walburga-Abraxas monstrosity was talking with Hermione. Draco Malfoy had a very punchable face, Tom Riddle thought. He got that form his Great Aunt.

For the life of him, Tom Riddle couldn't remember exactly whose idea it was to try out his wand on target practise. He suspected it was Kajo's, but he had no proof.

It started by trying to hit a few conjured birds from a fair distance. Around twenty metres. When that proved too easy, they made clay crickets. Merrythought glared at him. ''You want to destroy your friend's crickets with reducto's, but you don't want to destroy my clay birds with the killing curse.''

Lena said some comforting things to Merrythought then. It scared him to know that they got along.

Voldemort moved the wand and cast verbally because alcohol made silent casting harder. It came as a hiss, _''Sstupefy_!'', but for a parselmouth, that was expected when drunk. The language barrier fell apart. It was another reason why he never drank. No one understood him when he talked, as he forgot English.

Two girls, Fatima and Latifa, slithered up to the parselmouths. They embraced with the sisters. All hissed openly and merrily. They'd just arrived. Apparition was madness. Lakeisha Durant broke a portkey in a drunken haze and they had to wait until she made a new one.

''We won't be drinking, thank you.'' Fatima said and gestured her sister. ''We're presenting tomorrow and need our minds in perfect condition.''

Latifa was talking to Montgomery Goldsmith and asking him questions about America.

''What's the Grand Canyon like? Have you seen it?''

''It's grand, prolly, yeah.'' Tom Riddle hissed in parseltongue and wondered if he sounded British when he spoke it… If he sounded _cockney_ when he spoke it? If he'd not rooted that out of himself, even with Abraxas Malfoy's constant lessons in etiquette and speech?

The music blared. His ears were sensitive to that sort of thing. Not that he'd ever liked parties. Even as a youth, he'd always preferred spending quality time with a book. Abraxas Malfoy was the life of any party always. He dragged Tom to Ministry functions back when they were both allowed (he was disallowed for being a radical, racist minister murderer whilst Tom Riddle was disallowed because he was Abraxas Malfoy's plus one).

The night progressed.

Voldemort jokes were being tossed around. Halfway through a marathon of them, Tom Riddle had a brilliant, inebriated idea.

"I do an AMAZING impression of Lord Voldemort." Lord Voldemort said and took another drink from his friends. Usually, his greatest sign that he ought to stop drinking was Abraxas Malfoy's confusion at the parseltongue.

The parseltongue was not a sign of drunkenness this fine night, but rather of solidarity.

The parselmouths told him to go on. "Let's hear it! Let's go! Come on, Lord Voldemort! Woohoo!"

Lord Voldemort took another sip. It helped give him courage to do the next part brilliantly.

In parseltongue: ''This is what I like to call 'What Would Lord Voldemort Say To Harry Potter If They Met Today'.''

Loud cheers resounded even before Tom Riddle got into his Lord Voldemort character. He schooled his features into ice cold, emotionless lines. But he also nearly died laughing when he saw Kajo giving him thumbs up and it was terribly hard to keep serious. The alcohol was getting to him. The atmosphere lifted him. The joy carried him.

''Harry Potter,'' Lord Voldemort said, ''the Boy Who Lived,'' then gestured dramatically with his wand for space in front of him as if, in fact, he gestured to Harry Potter, ''come to die.''

Makoto Sato _howled_ with laughter.

Lord Voldemort tried to remember other rehearsed lines he'd perfected for the hypothetical occasion and fished them out of his memory. ''But wait,'' he said, ''there's _MORE_!''

* * *

Draco Malfoy was approached by a vampire named Gunther Schmidt. Hermione watched this train wreck of a conversation a little off to the side, sipping her apple cider glass because she was a Good Girl Archetype when it came to alcohol. Other times, she could keep a woman in a jar out of vengeance without batting an eyelid.

''I think we started off on the wrong foot.'' Gunther smiled without showing his teeth. Draco was thankful for that. He carefully outstretched his hand and shook hands. ''What's your name?''

''Malfoy,'' Draco said because all Malfoys flaunted their family name first, and then their individual title, ''Draco Malfoy.''

''Nice,'' the vampire snickered. ''Is that like a James Bond reference? Bond,'' he struck a pose, ''James Bond?''

Hermione snort-laughed into her drink. Bubbles formed on it and she inhaled some into her nose, causing her to break into a cough. Draco glared at her and, out of defiance, didn't move to help her.

''No,'' he said, ''it's a Malfoy reference.''

Gunther nodded, now awkwardly, because his joke had been brutally shot down. He sipped some red wine and said that it was really good. ''Anyone want any drinks?''

Hermione raised her drink and said that she was good, ''Thank you.''

Draco Malfoy was drinkless and in heinous social pain at the moment. He wanted to be as far away from this individual as possible. Muggleborns he could tolerate because of politics, but dark creatures he need not even glance at. Not to mention they could turn on him at any moment! He'd be defenceless drunk. This was the vampire's plan all along. Yes! To get him drunk and primed for his violent attack.

I see right through you, Draco Malfoy seethed in his thoughts, I see right through you, you vampiric parasite!

''Draco would like a drink.'' Hermione smiled and Draco had a mighty urge to disapparate from the premises, else he break off into a duel with the capable Miss Granger.

''All right!'' Gunther said and snapped his fingers at them. What did that mean? Was that some sort of vampire code? Oh God, he was going to die. He needed to write his mother and tell her he loved her. She would probably write him back this sentence: Love you too, my dear dragon. Now stop being dramatic you aren't thirteen anymore. (The Buckbeak incident was never really forgotten in his household).

''What's with you?'' Hermione deadpanned.

''What?'' Draco Malfoy asked, sweaty beyond comprehension.

Hermione gestured Gunther amiably chatting with Lena and Merrythought. ''Are you scared of vampires?''

* * *

Gunther to Lena: ''Hey, just a heads up, if I leave with your bushy haired charge, it's just cause I'm trying to flirt with the blond, and she's attached to his hip.''

Lena to Gunther: ''Sure, sure. No biting, though, kid.''

Gunther, appalled: ''I'd never do that! Never!''

Merrythought interjecting, because non-vampires always had things to say to vampire matters: ''For all I care, you can love bite that Malfoy all you like, but the bushy haired girl is _my_ student's student, and he's a nightmare to deal with.''

Lena, then, because how dare Merrythought simply exclude Tom Riddle being her student also: ''I see what you are aiming and I will not be set aside. Arm wrestling match to prove who is better teacher.''

Merrythought, who's always ready to throw down after two shots of any alcoholic beverage: ''Bring it!''

Gunther backed away slowly.

* * *

''So what if I _am_ scared, Granger?'' Draco was not scared of admitting that as it was a common and rational fear. ''Aren't you?''

''Lena is the first vampire I've met and she scares me to death,'' Hermione divulged. ''Gunther seems like a kid compared to her.''

''Yeah, but he probably isn't.'' Draco said. ''He's probably some ten thousand year old hitting on a kid, like ME!''

Gunther came back with the drinks and asked them if they'd like to go to his room get to know each other better, because the music was too loud to communicate properly.

''HEY!'' Hermione grabbed Draco before he could flee. She asked questions other people were afraid to. ''How old are you?''

Vampire hearing enabled Gunther to hear Hermione. The parselmouths hissed a shanty of some kind and roped a denim robe wearing man into singing with them. Gilderoy Lockhart was schmoozing with the key organiser. Some people were hidden in the shadows and Gunther was just trying to get a cute boy's number, so that wasn't anything he should be paying attention to, thank you.

''I'm turning twenty in five days.'' He grinned and asked Hermione after her age. She said she'd be turning nineteen this month, too.

''DRACO!''

Draco turned to Hermione. ''What?''

''He's not ten thousand! He's _twenty_.'' Hermione didn't know when she signed up to be Draco's wingwoman, but it sure was entertaining!

**_''He's twenty thousand years old?!'_ **

Gunther, having caught on, grabbed both of their hands in his and dragged them outside of the party. Without the noise, conversation came easier.

''I'm not even twenty yet. I turn twenty tenth of September. I'm nineteen.''

Draco Malfoy looked at Gunther and narrowed his eyes, ''How long have you been nineteen?''

''A year?'' Gunther laughed at the two British mages. ''How long have you guys been eighteen?''

''A year.'' Hermione cheerfully exclaimed. She nudged Draco, who muttered, ''A few months.''

However, that amiableness didn't last long. Draco pointed his wand at Gunther and demanded for proof. ''I'm not satisfied.''

''Fine, okay. I know a spell my grandmother taught me. She helped run a brothel,'' Draco and Hermione balked. Gunther laughed at them. ''So, because of polyjuice and stuff, it was easy for kids to sneak in and have their way with the workers there. However, meine Oma decided to make a spell to check the customer's magic age. Blood replenishes. Magic doesn't. Magic is proof of your age. It's like when you cut down a tree and look at its rings.''

Both nodded. Gunther continued teaching. He swirled his wand at Draco and said, without missing a beat: ''You're eighteen and five days till three exact months.''

''That's right on the dot!'' Hermione said. She inquired about the spell some more, always striving to learn. Draco refused to be convinced until it was done on Hermione also.

Gunther cast then for Hermione and narrowed his eyes. ''It says that you're nineteen already.''

''I KNEW IT WAS FAKE!'' The Walburga genes showed through Draco when he was anxious.

Hermione laughed and said that she was wondering how old she **really** was. Draco asked what she meant. Gunther had a very bemused expression on his face.

"I had a time turner in my third year," Hermione explained. "So, by time travelling all year, I knew there would be some accumulation added on to me. Thank you, Gunther, for helping me figure out how much that was."

Gunther grinned like a wholesome creature that was happy to help out. "No problem!"

Draco, resigned, asked to do the spell on him. Gunther obliged. The fact was that Gunther had not lied about his age. Which garnered a question: "How'd you get bit so young!?"

Gunther then proceeded to tell them that he did it all on a dare.

Draco was appalled. Hermione had Gryffindor flashbacks of Harry and Ron telling each other to goad the three headed dog in their first year.

''Do it, Harry!''

''Harry, don't you dare, you'll get expelled!''

''You're the Boy Who Lived, mate, who the bloody hell is dumb enough to expel you!''

''RONALD WEASLEY, YOU DUMB-!"

Harry Potter was already battling the dog before Hermione could finish her very-impolite sentence. That would not be the first time her heart suffered palpitations due to Weasley-Potter induced stress.

Jumping ship to Slytherin was a very smart decision in the long term as far as Hermione's health was concerned. Daphne Greengrass, Pansy Parkinson, and Millicent Bulstrode were vicious, but with a good head on their shoulders and a sense of self-preservation Hermione valued.

In sixth year, when Harry was reading from a used potions book and beating Hermione at class and Draco Malfoy was writing furious letters to his grandfather how he didn't at all understand arithmancy and how dare Hermione bloody Granger beat him there, Pansy Parkinson had brought along chocolates to bribe Hermione with as she sat down next to her in advanced charms and asked if they could be study buddies. Millicent and Daphne were a ways away, looking expectantly.

''You've been calling me names for years.'' Hermione said. It was true that after third year, the name calling did peter out. But still! Remember and resent! At least until given an apology.

''I was a snotty, envious bitch.'' Pansy said bluntly like a blunt knife lodged inside someone's abdomen. She slid the chocolates closer to Hermione. They were her favourite. Damn, Hermione thought, Parkinson did her research. ''I'm sorry.''

''Library. Tonight after dinner.'' Hermione scooped the chocolates up into her satchel bag. Pansy turned around with a pleased expression and gave her Slytherins a victorious thumbs up. Millicent and Daphne high fived.

Harry Potter and Ron Weasley were bemused by her odd friendship - business partnership, really - but it did prepare them for when she befriended Draco of all people.

* * *

With the help of alcohol Gunther and Draco slowly unwound. Hermione drank some green liquid which she lifted from the minibar. It burned and made her ill, but she wondered what it was and Gunther was looking at her in awe for drinking it without aid of water, calling her a goddess of alcohol tolerance. It didn’t take long for Hermione, sensing her third-wheelness, to ask Draco if he was okay to be left alone. Not to mention that her stomach churned in an uncomfortable manner and Hermione was definitely going to leave before she threw up and killed the mood. Whether Draco told her he was fine with her leaving or no, Hermione was definitely going to go back to her hotel room. Draco was down for a drunken snog. With a crack, she apparated.

And then, much before Hermione even noticed that someone was in the hotel room also nursing a drunken haze, she sprinted for the bathroom, slammed up the toilet seat, and plunged her head into the toilet. Some of her hair fell into the water and mixed with her vomit and Hermione didn't even usually drink alcohol, but Draco had said if **he** had to drink then so had **she** and nothing had seemed so bad _at first._

She hadn't even mixed! She'd only stuck with the green stuff!

Feeling overwhelmed and vulnerable, Hermione cried into the toilet. Drowning in her own woe, Hermione missed when someone entered the bathroom and gently asked if she needed any help. It was her mentor. _Oh GOD._

If Hermione wasn't too busy throwing up, she'd be embarrassed beyond comprehension. He leaned forward from the sink next to the toilet and pulled up her hair, tying it with magic in a ponytail. His speech sounded slurred and hissy when he berated her. ''The youth, as always, knows no measure.''

By this point, Hermione was too exhausted to throw up, but could still feel tears sliding down her cheeks. Neither could she lift her head because, if she so much as moved an inch, her stomach would spin again. ''I'm sorry.''

''You’ll learn from this.'' Her mentor stopped leaning because he remembered something and laughed, settling down next to the toilet. He sat and waited for Hermione to compose herself. It helped that someone was with her. God, whenever she'd be sick, it would usually be her mother who was up with her when her stomach was upset and Hermione began crying again. _Fully crying._ An onslaught of tears enveloped her face and fell into the flushed toilet. Sometime through the vomiting, she or her mentor had flushed it to clear the smells.

''Hermione,'' he began gently – and he had such a calming, soothing tone! – ''what did you drink?''

Hermione blubbered on, now in her world with her problems. She pushed her head out of the toilet, met his crimson eyes, and keened a cry: ''My parents don't love meee.''

Drunk girl logic was non-existent. Women in this kind of state ought to only be listened to and taken care of. That was why Tom Riddle listened to his apprentice and rubbed her back. He took out his wand to scourgify her face and comforted her because, well, the kid was under his supervision and he liked her. It kind of put him down to see her so down. Remembering his escapades as pretend Lord Voldemort elicited a giggle from him, however.

Hermione saw this as her mentor laughing at her. ''Stop iit.'' She slurred and tried to punch him. Her coordination was shot greatly and her strength was null and whatever she may have attempted turned into a small kitten trying to hurt a much larger, very drunk, cat.

''I'm not laughing at you.'' Then he laughed some more. Because he was that kind of drunk. It was good, though, that Hermione could understand him because it meant that he was sobering up.

''Liaar.'' Hermione said. Then, as most drunk people, she decided to tell her tale of misfortune that, whilst being sober was stuffed deep down inside her. ''Like, my parents love me, yeah.'' Her voice was wound up and she was on the verge of tears. ''But they're distant, you know? Like, when I was gonna leave for Montenegro,'' hiccup, some more tears, blubbering, ''my parents were busy with work and they think that I'm this cold and independent daughter, but you know –'' she began to cry again, ''they're _wrong_.'' On the last word, her voice rose to hysterics.

''I'm sorry you feel like this. There's no kind way to figure out your parents are idiots.'' Her mentor comforted and Hermione snivelled, rubbing her hand to wipe her nose, eliciting disgust from her mentor, who aimed his wand at her again and cast scourgify.

''I'm sorry for burdening you with this.'' Hermione whispered, leaning on the cool circle of the toilet. It felt good against her clammy skin. She whimpered a bit involuntarily. Montgomery Goldsmith asked her again why she would do this to herself and what she'd drunk so he could help in procuring her a sober up potion.

''It's green and _foul_.'' Hermione described. ''I've never drunk it.''

''Green…'' Her mentor was piecing this together and he was laughing, but it was not a good natured laugh. It sounded amused and horrified. ''Small glass, I take it?'' He roughly showed her the size of glass Hermione drank from. She nodded. He laughed some more at her, hissing and coughing when his age caught up with his state.

''You know it?''

He aimed his wand at her stomach and murmured some spells. ''You're lucky I don't have to take you to a healer.'' Loud-hiss laughing now. ''Good Girl Granger drank _absinthe_.''

''How much alcohol is in that?''

''If I remember correctly,'' Tom Riddle used to brew absinthe in the Hogwarts Forest to make sure people didn't catch whiff of his illicit potion brewing (he made quite a fortune selling the stuff to Slughorn and a bunch of Ravenclaws), ''arouund seventy percent?''

Hermione threw up again.

''I'm horrible! My life is horrible!'' the toilet said because Hermione's head was nowhere to be seen. Tom Riddle patted Hermione's back and told her that she was going to be fine. It wasn't anything a healthy teenager couldn't shake.

''Am I being too whiny?'' she wondered, switching between sad to serious to exasperated. ''Am I too much right now? Because my parents are going to move to Australia and they're selling the family home and I don't know – I just – don't – know!''

''I'm an orphan, I've never had this sort of situation happen to me.''

''Oh, that's HORRID!'' Hermione grabbed hold of Montgomery's hand and held it close in hers. Her face was paler than the moon in this moment of vomited fright. ''Oh, god,'' she said, dropping his hand and returning to the toilet.

''I'm going to get you an antiemetic.''

''Doon't leave meee,'' Hermione gurgled. ''Pleaseee.''

Tom Riddle remained with Hermione against her or his better judgement. She shook and shivered, but the company was appreciated nonetheless.

''I feel robbed.''

''Yeah?''

''Robbed. Absolutely robbed. Thieved out of my own parents. I spent most of the holidays with either the Weasleys or the Malfoys. I don't think I recall the last time my parents and I went somewhere – it's always dentist conferences and seminars and FUCK business trips!''

''You're really hung up over this.''

''Yeah.''

In his semi-sober glory, Tom Riddle decided to offer, ''I'm your parent now. Stop crying over this. Nobody needs blood relatives anymore. It's dépassée''

Hermione, in her semi-lucid glory, decided to accept. ''That's the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me, sir.'' She mustered enough strength to hug him tightly before deciding that was a horrible idea and throwing up over him. He stood up and finally got her that antiemetic before ordering her to bed.

* * *

Meanwhile

''We're going to strike tomorrow,'' came the resolute attack plan from the Spanish woman.

''Eeeh.'' The other woman, her voice Polish in inflection, ''I've got a date tomorrow.''

''Fine. Day after tomorrow, we strike the cur where it hurts.''

''It's a date.''

''You have another date, then?''

''No, it's something you say when the deal is done.''

''Listen, I'm from Spain and I hardly care for English expressions.''

''I mean, Polish hello, same here.''

''All right, it's settled then. Day after tomorrow. We ought to let the others know.''

''Should we put it in our calendars?''

''I think we can remember this without putting it in our calendars.''

''I'm going to put mine, just in case.''

''All right. Day _after_ tomorrow.''

''Wait, my date's the day after tomorrow.''

''So, tomorrow, then?''

''Tomorrow works for me completely.''

''Okay, so _tomorrow_.''

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drunk Hermione: My parents are distanttt and cold and I want warmth and care  
> Drunk Voldemort: Hell yeah my snake dudes let's roast the living shit out of Lord Voldemort whom I am not at all


	15. Reap what you sow

Dreams were peculiar things, littered with subconscious symbols and messages. Some were of fears, dreaded; most were just extremely weird and should not be delved into for the sake of one's sanity. Then again, that was safe to assume for people that did not have their soul pieces scattered throughout the world.

Tom Riddle did not dream often. He had shut off that option and said that nightmares brought weakness. Lord Voldemort even less for he drank Dreamless sleep to be better rested to fight.

Montgomery Goldsmith, who under normal circumstances did not drink anything stronger than a small glass of rakija, found himself trapped inside the Headmaster's office at Hogwarts. Instead of Dippet he found Dumbledore, exhausted and in pain.

''I love this.'' Montgomery whispered, enjoying this dream and relishing in what he thought to be his imagination.

A blond man entered through the door, merry enough to exclaim: ''You look like a peacock spat you out because you were too chewy. Would you like me to call dear Pomfrey?"

Albus Dumbledore raised a weary gaze to Abraxas Malfoy and whispered hoarsely, hiding his hand from sight peculiarly. Tom Riddle moved to see what it was but his dream would not allow him free movement. "I would prefer you not to."

"It is my place to offer. Now, you have called me because Vektor, that sad excuse for an arthimantic, has told you about our mathematical duel. I shall not apologise like some _criminal_ for proving her incompetence." Abraxas Malfoy spat the word with unimaginable distaste. Pureblood criminals never saw themselves as such. Everyone else was always wrong.

Tom began to view the dream from a different angle, not from a neutral point between the two wizards bickering. Now it was from behind Abraxas.

Abraxas was wearing the robe Tom had gifted him. It had been the most fun he'd had had with magic infusion. Robes that changed colour depending on their owner's moods were child's play compared to what he'd done.

To have a robe show all of the colours visible to a human eye _at once_ when light hit it was no easy task. Not only that, but to spell the robe so when in darkness it was useful for camouflage proved to be Tom Riddle's side project masterpiece.

In the middle of a rant (because, of course, even in dreams Abraxas Malfoy would rant) the blond man had stopped, tongue tied.

A glacial glare formed in his silver eyes.

With his non cane holding hand he pointed to his mouth and then to Dumbledore, no doubt demanding what was happening.

"That was not me, my boy."

What nerve! Tom Riddle thought. Only Slughorn called Slytherins boy or lad or son. Dumbledore would never stoop so low. Unless there were some manipulative machinations at play. Unless they _were_ on the same side. This dream was proving too complex.

Abraxas raised his trimmed brows and left the office demonstratively with five assured cane steps. This was ridiculous. Tom Riddle glided, following Lord Malfoy.

Upon exiting he heard coughing and saw Abraxas doubling over, leaning on his cane for support next to a wall. It was pride that had given wind to Abraxas Malfoy's outburst inside, and now he was left stranded amidst his sick sea.

The air changed. Tom Riddle looked around for a sign of the culprit.

A magical manifestation stood, gangly and arcane and **dark**. Looming over Abraxas Malfoy and radiating hostile magic. It was a formless mass of black, tar-like substance that dripped with stray particles of magic, cast a long time ago.

Abraxas crutched down some stairs, mouthing counter curses and wards away from ill-wishers. The manifestation lunged for Abraxas, but whether this was a normal occurrence or not, the Malfoy seemed used to its attacks – he swung his magic coated cane as hard as he could at it and said: ''I don't have to see you to feel your magical presence, you annoying jinx!''

The pain from the attacked magic rattled through Tom Riddle, causing him to wake up in a Munich hotel room.

The first thing he did was clean up in the attached bathroom, flinging water at his face quickly, desperately trying to shake off the odd dream. He needed to leaf through some Divination books to see what this meant. Next on his agenda he exited his bedroom and upon finding both Merrythought and Lena up and about drinking tea asked them what he'd drunk last night. Because none of this could be a product of a sober mind.

"You drank six glasses of magic heightened wine." Merrythought told him and propped her elbow on a terrace table she and Lena occupied. It was near dawn. The sun was not yet up. Lena's coffin obstructed the better part of the lounge room. Hermione snored in her room. Oddly enough he remembered the bathroom scene vividly. It brought a laugh to his lips which he stopped from forming. That unfortunate, hilarious child.

"I am disappointed." Lena told him and mirrored Merrythought's gesture. The table rattled by the force.

At Merrythought's pursed lips and thoughtful look Lena grinned: "Scared?"

"You wish."

''Disappointed?'' God forbid Tom Riddle disappointed a mentor.

''You're a lightweight.'' Lena lied about being upset and disappointed in him for that. She grasped Merrythought's hand tightly in hers and began to push it down, but was met with incredible resistance from the Irish witch.

''I seldom drink.''

''You drank last night.'' The Irish witch said calmly and gritted her teeth when Lena's superhuman strength began to weigh her hand down. ''It was to celebrate my return to society, your new wand, and your acceptance into the parselmouth circle. I egged you on and for that I apologise. It was my presumption that a seventy-one year old man knew how to drink.''

''No harm done.'' His head was killing him. ''Did anyone bring sober up potions with them?''

Lena, Balkan and not needing any assistance when battling hangovers, simply rolled her eyes. Merrythought, Irish and not needing any assistance when battling hangovers, simply shook her head.

Rustling alerted the adults that their youngest roommate was up. Her hair, on a good day was a mess. It seemed that today was a horrible day. She looked like Death warmed over her. Without meaning to Montgomery's lips curled up in a smile. ''I do hope last night has taught you a lesson you soon won't forget, dear apprentice.''

With bleary, tired eyes she mustered strength to meet his eyes. ''I want to die.''

Forever afraid of Death and dying, Tom Riddle cut her off at that briskly. ''No, you don't. Go and wash up.''

Hermione dragged herself to the bathroom and mumbled: ''I didn't drink this much even at the Hogwarts graduation party.''

Now that was a party that Tom Riddle recalled _well_.

* * *

1945

Hogwarts graduates were afforded one giant mess of a party where all four Houses joined together. They were aware that the chance of ever stepping back into Hogwarts were slim.

For some –

Abraxas Malfoy and Walburga Black danced a pagan, bird inspired dance of glee.

The prospect was beautiful. They couldn't wait for adulthood and leisurely pureblood activities to commence. School was tedious for Old Money. Walburga Black sang and took out from her pocket a shrunken down hurdy-gurdy. Her fingers expertly began to play it. Abraxas Malfoy sang, deafening people instead of Walburga Black for a change. Thoros Nott and the other Knights of Walpurgis swayed drunkenly and chorused.

For some –

Nobby Leach sauntered from the Ravenclaws congregated by a fire near the Lake and deliberately, decisively moved through the crowd. Howls from Gryffindors blared. Drunken Hufflepuffs took their wands and made fireworks in the sky. The Forest was nearby and being used for hook-ups and liaisons that would fall apart upon joining the Real World where Blood Mattered.

The prospect of leaving Hogwarts brought hope and ambition and _change_.

For some –

Tom Riddle leaned on a tree and looked blearily at the tree top, the branches flowering with flowers he'd never see, the ground he'd never sit upon, the air he'd never breathe in, the magic he would never feel. Hogwarts was home he was being shooed away from like a transit pest. In his hands was a glass of firewhisky. In his mind was a jumbled mess. In his chest was a split soul.

''Oi, mate.'' Leach greeted with a lopsided smile and plopped down next to Tom. He drank butterbeer and asked Tom how he was doing. ''You don't look so bright.''

''I'm right,'' slurred the parselmouth, slipping into hisses when the letters allowed him, ''ass rain, Leach. Right asss bloody rain.''

Careful fingers took his glass away, threw the alcohol away, and gave him a glass full of aguamenti water. Tom Riddle didn't drink it. ''It'ss undrinkable, you daft idiot.'' A giggle escaped past his chapped, bitten lips. At Nobby Leach's confused face he went on: ''Flitwick taught uss, remember – drinkable water and edible food cannot be conjured.''

''Never took you as someone who believed in that shite.'' To prove some point Nobby Leach took the glass of aguamenti water and instantly his face soured, but he went on to swallow it. Even though it probably tasted horrible. Worse than any healing or nutritional potion.

''I believe in fact.''

''You going into the Ministry?'' Nobby Leach had ideas he could only realise through the Ministry.

''No.''

''Gonna travel with your posh buddies?''

''No.''

''What _are_ you going to do after Hogwarts?''

Tom Riddle thought long and hard how he was going to answer. He grappled with the English language, defaulting to parseltongue a few times – and then finally made out a sentence he was satisfied with: ''I'm gonna change the world.''

''Not through politics.''

''I'm gonna research.'' The scholar in him shone. ''I'm gonna learn as many branches of magic I can. I'm gonna dissect spells and better them.'' He was thankful that Nobby didn't interrupt him. ''I want to be great, Leach. Remembered. It's something of a ... deformation of character with me.''

It didn't make much sense, but Nobby Leach nodded all the same. ''Like Prometheus, then?''

''Oh,'' Tom Riddle remembered whispering, on the brink of emotional collapse with having to leave the only place he'd ever known as shelter and safety and _love_. ''I don't know. Maybe. I want to share my inventions no matter how much they may be backward – but I haven't nearly enough gutss – bravado – _moxy_ '' he grinned a sloppy smile. ''To deal with people that don't agree with me.''

''Fair enough.''

''You gonna be Minister?''

''Yup.''

''First muggleborn minister, yeah?''

''Muggleborn am I? Don't you call us mudbloods now that you've paired off with Malfoy and his cronies?'' Nobby Leach tried to appear teasing, but hurt was evident in his voice.

''I want more than a secretary job, Leach.''

''You can have more!''

''When? Decades from now? I can't... I don't want to enter the Ministry as it is. It's frightful and wrong what they do – if you aren't a pureblood you can't even get a job there half the time... _Muggles_ deserve the derision, I say. But I'm magic,'' gestured to himself and Leach, ''we're magic and we're better than that sort!''

Leach didn't stop him, but didn't agree. He was one of the few people who could keep an open mind and listen even though he never agreed and could never have his mind changed. Tom Riddle envied that.

''Aligning yourself with the purebloods when you aren't one of them is stupid, mate.''

''I'm not a pureblood, no – but I'm no mudblood either.'' Riddle said to Leach who furrowed his brows. It was so good to know your heritage from the beginning to know that you came from muggle stock and to be proud of it. Tom Riddle had not had such privilege, such _peace of mind_.

''I met my father, Leach.''

''Yeah?''

''He'ss a posh fuck, would you believe that?''

''Good kind?''

''There iss no good kind of arisstocrat.'' Tom Riddle said, remembering the face of horror upon his father's face. The look of hatred and anguish and _fear_. To look upon your own son with such ... such ... Tom Riddle breathed shakily and rubbed at his eyes, angry – so angry.

''Did you get some hush money at least?'' Leach was smart. Leach was a Ravenclaw. He could read books and people like Tom Riddle could.

''I didn't want to be a cliché.''

''Stupid of you, that.''

Leach came from a family with a father and a mother that loved each other, but didn't know how to feel about his magic. They were a religious sort. Like Mrs. Cole, but Mrs. Cole didn't love him. His father didn't love him. His grandparents didn't love him. His uncle didn't love him.

''Is he a pureblood? Riddle your mother's name?''

''Riddle'ss my father'ss name. He'ss a muggle. Bloke’s named Tom Riddle, y’know? I get his face, I get hiss name and none of it’ss doing me any good… I refusse that name. I hate that name. It’ss hiss name, it’ss not mine.’’

‘’I mean, mate, it’s the only name you’ve got.’’

Tom Riddle didn’t listen: ‘’Riddle’ss a mudblood name. Tom Riddle’ss an infuriating, desspicable man.''

''Oh.'' Leach whispered. ''Bugger that. You're of age now, aren't ya? No need for that stupid orphanage business no more, right?''

Tom Riddle nodded. His eyes filled with steel and from an angle they sparked red. ''Right.''

''You find anything out about your mum?''

''Yup.'' Tom Riddle popped the P like Leach often did. It was undignified, but it set him apart from the stuck up students of Hogwarts. A laugh tore from his throat painfully. It mixed with a hiccup. Tom Riddle usually never drank. He hadn't the tolerance for it. He was a lightweight in all senses of the word. ''You're gonna laugh.''

''Am I?'' Leach neared him so their knees were touching. Tom Riddle smiled.

''Yeaah.''

''Do tell, then.''

''Sshe'ss a _pureblood_.''

''Noo.''

''Mixed with a muggle! High lady of a pureblood _famille_ ,'' it was only because of Abraxas that Tom began inserting French words into his day to day vocabulary. To appear dignified. To be worthy of attention he desperately craved. Power could be sought only through the powerful.

''Can't be more pureblood than,'' Leach straightened up and did a good impersonation of Walburga Black, ''THE NOBLE AND MOST ANCIENT HOUSE OF BLACK!''

''You know that bloke,'' Tom Riddle purposefully vagued, gesturing to Hogwarts Castle, ''Salazar Slytherin.''

''Nasty bloke, hear he's got this obsession with blood supremacy. That's a deal breaker for me, it is.'' Leach laughed at his own joke. It took guts to laugh at your own joke when it failed. ''Idiot, my personal opinion.''

''That'ss my great ssomething grandfather you're bessmirching.'' Tom Riddle raised his fisticuffs sarcastically. ''I sshan't sstand for ssuch ssslander.''

''Okay, _now_ you're taking the piss.'' Leach accused.

''Am not!''

''So are!''

Pause. The music simmered and the smells of magic intertwining grew stronger as the night grew longer and longer. Thoros Nott danced with Elektra Lovegood, swinging her happily and snogging her. She returned each attempt with more passion. Future Lady Nott. Future Casualty of War.

''Is that why the purebloods want to be friends with you?''

''Reckon sso.''

''You're their little mascot, then.'' Leach made his tone neutral, but Tom Riddle could decipher bile and disgust in it anyhow.

''I'm gonna rule them, Leach.'' Lord Voldemort said. ''I'm gonna rule them all and make them pay for ever thinking I couldn't.'' He had murdered and he had murdered again and he had found _power_ in the act. Nobby Leach may have had ideas, but it didn't mean that Lord Voldemort didn't either. He just needed time and connections and Abraxas Malfoy was just the person to help him. He'd helped the blond fink pass OWLs and NEWTs and really now – it was the _least_ he could do.

''You're whoring yourself out to him, aren't you?''

Tilting his head, blinking, Tom answered: ''No, I don't ssee it like that.''

Nobby Leach had a guarded grimace. His folks believed in the power of God and God condemned men who lay with men. Tom Riddle had never had a mother or father to disappoint with his choices and therefore took liberty in that.

''You love him?''

''No,'' Tom Riddle remembered how his amortentia had smelled of nothing and tasted of nothing and condemned him to lovelessness. ''I don't think I do.''

''Then _what_?''

''I'm fond of him.'' Tom Riddle admitted. It would be first and last time he ever admitted feeling affection towards Abraxas. Later he would see it as not needing to justify himself; before he'd seen it as something terrifying to do – now, now he just felt like saying it.

''You're fond of his money.'' Nobby Leach said bitterly and stood, angrily marching back to the Ravenclaw fold. Tom Riddle slumped against his tree and watched him go.

Abraxas Malfoy shouted for him: ''Tom! TOM! Where have you gone?''

Tom Riddle waved. ''Abraxas, over here!''

A grin split across the fair aristocrat's face. It lit up beautifully. Abraxas was the most beautiful creature he'd ever seen, he'd ever felt being watched by. When Abraxas sauntered towards him and pulled him up he was kissed for the first time. Tom Riddle tried not to think about Nobby Leach's words as he returned the kiss.

* * *

"Oh God," Tom Riddle said, remembering how talkative he was when drunk and remembering his Lord Voldemort escapades. His mentors arm wrestled to prove some point. "Oh fuck what did I tell them last night?"

"What?" Lena asked, but didn't falter from her match. Merrythought was pushing with all of her might but it wasn't enough.

"The parselmouths… how did I even come back to the hotel room?"

Lena answered. "They unloaded you on the bed and said that you were the greatest comedian they have ever had the pleasure of listening to." then when Voldemort looked flattered Lena added: "Which personally I think is bullshit. Your sense of humour is dry like a desert."

"Lena, that means I have a _good_ sense of humour."

Lena, momentarily confused and pissed off at the English language, got distracted and floundered for a cohesive comeback. Merrythought used this opportunity to slam her arm down and emerge victorious as the true mentor of Tom Riddle.

''YES!'' The Defence professor to end all Defence professors jumped up in the air and raised her fist victoriously. ''Take that!''

Tom Riddle continued asking after last night. Lena told him that nothing had been compromised. This vagueness only irritated Riddle more and he pushed for information. That's when Merrythought snickered: ''I'd stop with the questions else Lena might bite you.''

''Like I'd bite him.'' Lena shouted, peeved. ''He's not even my favourite blood type. All of this drama is happening to him because he's 0 negative. If he were an A positive he'd be able to cast normally. They're the best kind of people!''

Merrythought snorted and inquired about this vampire horoscope.

Lena launched that speech like a pro.

Tom Riddle was too tired to listen to it. He left in his crinkled robes to have a walk. It would do him good. He still felt embarrassed by his pathetic duel from the other day. Taking the acacia out from his pocket he peered at it. It worked like a charm when it came to magic, but during duelling – Lord Voldemort's signature – it hesitated because _he_ hesitated. He had been so, so happy when Yaxley took up the responsibility of firing the killing curse. When it landed Voldemort had been overcome with joy. Of course it had been too good to be true.

To make a depressing morning better – he ran into a frantic, screaming Gilderoy Lockhart shouting: ''Superstar! Oh superstar, where are you?!''

* * *

Gilderoy Lockhart, remembering that he had signed a contract detailing that he would make sure no harm came over Draco, surged out of his hotel room in frenzy. He put on his robe in the hallway and tried to find his superstar by shouting atop his lungs and waking every single person in the perimeter: ''Draco, my superstar! Where are you hiding?''

Going down a flight of stairs he found Montgomery Goldsmith.

''I lost my superstar!''

''I heard.'' Montgomery drawled in a condescending way. ''I'll help you look. Goodness forbid you lose a Malfoy. I rather thinks his family would skin you alive.''

''Yes, there is strength in numbers!''

They cast locating charms (surprisingly Lockhart could cast a good one) and searched the hotel, glad that they needn't apparate out. That it was contained and nearby. ''I didn't read the contract well enough.'' Gilderoy Lockhart confided in a disinterested dark wizard in hiding.

''I'm surprised you know how to read.''

''I am an author and an avid reader!''

Ignoring the former: ''What part did you not read well of that contract?''

''I thought it was just physical harm – but apparently it's also mental harm!''

Montgomery Goldsmith, well aware of how much a certain forgetful spell meant to Lockhart, smiled and toothily asked: ''What does that entail?''

''No forced legilimency for starters,'' Lockhart listed, ''no obliviation, no memory charms!''

''Why…'' Montgomery Goldsmith egged on, enjoying messing with people far too much for his own good, ''would you ever _need_ to cast these types of spells on your apprentice, Mr. Lockhart?'' He faked innocence and bemusement while knowing how the man depended on his ability to cover up his tracks no matter where they were.

Gilderoy Lockhart was an annoying man, but Tom Riddle never had a single doubt in his mind that the man couldn't catch onto things if he really wanted to: ''In case something happens and he begs me in his small, childlike wonder of voice 'Mr. Lockhart, my mentor and teacher and guide in this treacherous un-life of adolescence I beg you to make me forget this one specific thing that I am dying in shame because of!'''

''Fair enough.'' Montgomery couldn't help but grin at the brilliant stupidity of this man next to him and the stupid brilliance of his that shone through once in a blue moon.

They kicked down a door and Tom Riddle, forever enacting the pleasure that came with being an authoritative figure akin to Head Boy, announced in a very firm fashion: ''Fun's over. Whatever nasty things have happened last night shall remain unspoken unless they are illegal at which point mob justice will prevail as the only acceptable form of conduct.''

''SUPERSTAR!'' Gilderoy Lockhart yelled upon spotting Draco Malfoy in his pants and nothing more. He emerged from a coffin a little farther down the other room and wasn't that just a positively depraved sight. No bite mark on him. Good.

Abraxas Malfoy, Tom Riddle knew, would be screaming at this. Muggleborns were popular to like, but vampires? Oh, oh my. He curled his lips in a satisfied little grin. Vampires he would mount on spikes like Vlad Tepes if he had the ability.

''Please don't tell my family, Mr. Lockhart – nothing happened! I just stripped down because the alcohol was making me feel hot.''

Tom Riddle chanced a small glimpse into Draco's mind to see what exactly had happened last night.

They were drinking from the minibar (his heart clenched at the mere thought of how much that cost). Hermione was laughing and ushering Draco to make a move on the vampire, or at the very least stop being deathly afraid of him. Gunther said some irrelevant things about his life Tom Riddle cared not for. There was dancing. Hermione, planned, turned on some lighter music and had the two boys slow dancing. To afford them some privacy she went back to throw up in her own hotel room.

They snogged, but other than that nothing happened. He pulled out of Draco Malfoy's mind unnoticeably.

The vampire himself rose and mumbled greetings. He helped Draco get up and spelled into him some sobriety. Poor kid was probably a lightweight like him. ''We are leaving.''

Gilderoy Lockhart berated the vampire, citing his book about how he'd beaten a whole vampire den with only a single stake and one garlic clove. The vampire kept blinking slowly, bemusedly.

''Ugh, my head is killing me.'' Draco muttered.

''Mine, too, if it makes you feel any better.''

''It doesn't.'' Draco answered truthfully and Tom Riddle vowed never to try and make people feel better ever again.

He unloaded the Walburga Black Malfoy into Lockhart's care and went down to the conference. Today was filled with ingenious speakers! One in particular made him relish coming here. Tom Riddle sat with the parselmouths and waited eagerly.

* * *

Therese Tremblay trembled.

Not only was she the youngest speaker at the conference, but she had the most provocative and problematic topic. Therese was seventeen and holding key cards. Her hands shook. She sweated. Words jumbled. Her vision blurred.

The people waited for her to say something, to introduce herself. When she opened her mouth all that came out was a small squeal for an adult to come and rescue her from this horror. Public speaking had never been her forte.

These were all scholars and well-adjusted magic users. These were all learned folk.

She was, too, but she lacked in experience. Her research was important and that was the only reason why she pushed herself to come here, to speak. It was the only conference that would host her topic. No one dared research what she had done because it was hushed up. Family secrets and dirty laundry had no right to be showcased. How could people not realise that the secrecy only added to the stigma? Only created more problems!

But she could not articulate these thoughts. Her tongue turned to ash. Her eyes muddled with tears. A ball of anxiety grew in her throat. Air passed slowly, barely. Her head hurt.

''Miss Therese Tremblay and her Amortentia research –'' Heidi introduced her, gave her time to compose herself. It was a gift.

Therese repaid this good deed by fainting in the middle of the stage, key cards scattered.

* * *

Tom Riddle saw Therese Tremblay fainting as a personal attack. ''I really wanted to hear what she had to say.'' How dare she faint?

''She's seventeen.'' Makoto Sato divulged.

Scratch that. How dare anyone let a seventeen year old with public speaking issues out there on that podium? Tom Riddle had had problems starting out with Prefect speeches and that had been just for his own House to his own peers. The pressure must have been magnificent.

''I think she won't be coming back.'' Kajo interjected.

No. That couldn't be it. Tom Riddle stood from his chair and went to see where they were taking Tremblay. He'd heard a lot about that kid. He’d read a lot about her, too. People talked and they had mentioned her name often with derision and sneers and awe and pride. The mixed signals put him off, but that was because she went where no witch or wizard had dared go.

For a seventeen year old to tackle side effects amortentia lent was fascinating. Bold. Much braver than anything Tom Riddle had attempted at her age. He'd been told he couldn't love and he'd cultivated that belief. Impressionable teenagers were so – upon reflection – _naive_.

Abraxas loved him and showed him love and tried to get him to love him back and maybe he did. Once upon a time. Before the war, maybe Tom loved him.

Lena called him from the other side of the arena and when he looked to her she shouted in Albanian that their training was not done! Grumbling, Tom Riddle ignored her. Acacia nestled in his pocket and he didn't do anything with it. It was a wand and it wasn't his problem that he couldn't cast the killing curse. Maybe he shouldn't! Did anyone think about that? Perhaps this was to be his penance?

Therese Tremblay came to. She blinked at Tom Riddle. He introduced himself slowly. She was so young, upon closer inspection. What possessed a girl to study such an outwardly sinister topic?

''I am sorry for bothering you if you are ill.'' He began because it was always good to apologise to a person before asking something of them –it made them think that by apologising and being decent you were entitled to information. ''However, I couldn't help but want to hear about your research.''

Flustered and happy and flattered. Her emotions played out just as her mind allowed him to read her thoughts. Didn't know occlumency. But then again what seventeen year old did? He'd started learning it at sixteen because of necessity.

Tremblay straightened up and outstretched her hand for him to shake. ''No bother at all. I came here to talk.'' she spoke determinedly now that there weren't hundreds of people watching her. ''Name's Therese Tremblay – you're Montgomery Goldsmith correct? You're talking with Lena Ajeti, aren't you? Runes, was it?''

''Sure am, miss.'' Montgomery Goldsmith remembered that he was American and therefore amped up the accent. If only Abraxas could hear him now. He'd kill him not for leaving him without a cure for years, but for choosing an American persona. The aristocrat detested them.

Therese, sensing that it was her turn to say something, began her presentation. She gained confidence in finding a man as invested in the matter as she.

''I began researching about this a few years ago for a potion's project, but then it grew into something more.'' Montgomery noticed her wringing her hands together awkwardly, but she wasn't going to faint. ''Amortetia, as you may know, is the most potent love potion created. It can drug a person ingesting it for up to a week if not cast off or thrown up or well – sometimes – bled out. Purebloods believe that it's in the blood, but it's kind of wrong. Amortentia latches onto a person's magic.''

''What about when you drug muggles?'' This much Tom Riddle already knew, but Tremblay did not have signs of stopping.

''Then it's like ingesting alcohol. I didn't research this as much as the effects it leaves on children born from its usage.''

Tom Riddle's eyes widened, he drew back from her and sized the girl up as if being burned by her words. She didn't notice or she didn't care. ''Amortentia wasn't created for the sake of helping arranged marriages flourish. It was created for _rape_ and it is unapologetically used for the same act even today.''

Tom Riddle, the elder, popped into the wizard's mind; the terror upon seeing him, the fear, the absolute conviction that something horrible was going to happen to him if he so much as spoke to his own son. Naïve children liked to blame living parents for everything because they weren't aware of what their dead one's had been up to. Merope Gaunt was not the saintly mother that died so her child could survive. It had taken decades for Voldemort to realise that.

Therese avoided eye contact as she spoke, finding it easier to talk this way. ''It was made by a man _for_ men. It wasn't until the 17th century that the potion became a woman's best friend. Things change through history. Women gained more courage to flip the table. Its mere existence remains terrible. But then when women began using Amortentia it seemed that it was safe to be taught in schools, easier for people to _excuse it._ A woman whose one job is to secure a husband needs all the help she can get. Men still brewed it and men still used it. During expeditions to lands they'd give them to aboriginal women and take them back to their countries as trophy brides – well behaved ladies that only wanted to please their husbands.'' Therese sneered, balling her fists.

''You mentioned adverse effects to using it, what did you mean by that?'' Tom Riddle asked this expert (seventeen and already an expert in a field – goodness the youth was so progressive nowadays) ''Does it have something to do with the notion that children born from amortentia can't love?''

Therese Tremblay looked him in the eye than, looked him long and hard. ''Albus Dumbledore is a man that should stick to Transfiguration.'' The ferocity and hatred in her tone relieved Tom Riddle.

''Man finds twelve uses of Dragon Blood and thinks he knows everything there is to know about every potion in existence!'' She stood and marched in the room they'd taken her to rest up. Tom Riddle watched in fascination as colour returned to her pale cheeks, as her hands stopped their shakes. ''I assume you read his article on the topic from 1946?''

1946 was when he'd found out about Tom Riddle's unfortunate parentage and history.

''I have.'' He didn't only read it – he lived it. Dumbledore – still enveloped by grief from condemning his lover to eternal imprisonment – had sauntered into Borgin and Burke's shop to slap the magazine right in front of the shop keep. Tom Riddle never liked Dumbledore because the man decided to take out all of his frustrations out on him. He was well respected and revered and Tom Riddle was a parentless, rootless prodigy. The latter meant nothing in their wizarding world.

He remembered Dumbledore reeking of brandy. The kind Dippet kept in his office.

''That 'ARTICLE' is born from prejudice and speculation. I don't know if you've kept up with Zeus Verbicker II'' (Tom Riddle had not had the time, what with leading an army) – he wrote many articles and research papers on love potions – not particularly keen on Amortentia as that is considered a pureblood potion and to shine ANY light on the illicit activities of the elite is frowned upon…'' she jumped then, flailing her arms. ''BUT! Love is something that everyone can feel. Personal connections are a possibility. It's rude and ableist to think that we can't love.''

* * *

Tom Riddle remembered brewing Amortentia in potion's class and taking a whiff of it, wondering how his would smell like. Abraxas was sitting next to him and looking at him oddly, anticipating something, waiting for maybe Tom to return his affection. He'd not been able to smell anything. No, correction. His Amortentia smelled like _nothing_.

Abraxas' smelled like parchment rolls and cheap cologne. ''You need to change colognes.'' Had been his criticism. It made Tom laugh awkwardly, feeling cheap and poor and flustered.

''What does yours smell like?'' Abraxas grinned, leaning closer and practically toppling them both over. It was like Abraxas often forgot how tall he was. Maybe he did. Forgetful sort – had Thoros Nott to remember everything for him.

Tom Riddle remembered lying, for the chaos that would ensue: ''Smells like roses.''

Walburga Black, the only that ever wore rose perfume but didn't wear it that day because she'd been out and substituted it with vanilla – brandished her wand and **screamed**.

''Walbie, no!''

''Burga, he isn't worth it!''

''Miss Black – put the wand down, _please_!''

''IRREVERENT **MUDBLOOD**!''

Ever since that day children were disallowed wands during Potions class.

* * *

Tremblay brought him back to the present from his musing. ''You're the only one that's interested so I've got to wonder if you know someone who has had dealings with Amortentia?'' At his silence she amended. ' _'AH_. You, too. My parents had an arranged marriage and couldn't stand each other. Purebloods you know how it is.'' He didn't. ''So my father slipped my mother amortentia in her drink and she doesn't remember anything from her wedding night to my fifth birthday. That's what amortentia was made for. It's about entrapment, not making a loving relationship.''

Tom Riddle just let this girl talk because he was entranced by all of this information. He'd avoided anything that had to do with amortentia because he had been frightened of it. Had been ashamed of what his parents had done to each other. Had been freaked out by Dumbledore's resolute, matter-of-fact words.

''Not being able to feel the same array of emotions as the majority doesn't mean that something is wrong with us. It's not amortentia gone wrong. Amortentia is made, in its essence, to be used again and again. There's this study conducted by Sara Tomašević on the topic that Amortentia is used for generations. First as a cure for lovelessness and then as a cure for the deformation it causes in the children. Which in turn simply spawns more problems and then you can't go a single generation without using amortentia in your relationships.''

Tom Riddle felt ill to his stomach. He gulped down spit and remembered that he nursed a hangover still. Tremblay didn't waver. She paced through the room and took out her wand to accio her key cards. The more she spoke to him the more he felt dejected and tired of pureblood matters. For purebloods using amortentia in their families was like using sober up potion for chavs. It was common, it was expected, and to refuse it was odd.

He tried to remember if Abraxas told him anything about it, but then again it wasn't something you shared.

''The secrecy hurts people far more than amortetia does because _qui tacet fatetur_.'' Tremblay went on. She was charged with power and determination. It was sad that she had not delivered this on stage, but maybe she would have the chance to do so later. Someone must have taken her time slot, thought Tom Riddle.

''Amortentia is an integral part of society. It messes up a magic user's sexual need certainly. But that's not an accidental thing.'' She fished out a recipe of amortentia and made correlation between plants and anti-aphrodisiacs. ''It doesn't hit the one drinking because of this plant right here that nullifies the other's properties – but the _children_ – oh them it **hits** with plenty. Makes them depend upon amortentia. Now, it depends on the _severity_ of the dosages used during conception. Some can't function sexually without having amortentia administered, some can, but it's uncomfortable – and for rare cases nothing happens. These are outliers, mind.''

Tom Riddle nodded. He took the key cards and perused them carefully. His gaze drifted from picture to picture, article to article. Albus Dumbledore was a spiteful, horrid man drenched in ignorance and fame that absolved it.

''In fact, amortentia doesn't influence one's romantic inclinations or sexual preferences at all. These are false claims. Someone dosed on amortentia can have sex with the sex they don't like but when it leaves the victim's system they won't magically like that sex. For the children the same goes. I've conducted a series of interviews on children whose parents used amortentia during their conceptions and all of them are in relationships without having any contact with amortentia. Of course, there's those that continue the family tradition and put some in their wine – amortentia tastes like nothing to us because by default it's expected that we're going to be drinking it. It's a _mercy_.'' Tremblay sneered. ''A mercy so we don't know that we're drinking anything out of the ordinary.''

'’Hm, I drink really flavoured drinks because of this.''

''Oh yeah, same. I put lemon in my water because water usually tastes like nothing to me. If you drink, for example, pineapple juice with all of that acidity and it tastes like nothing you know it's been dosed. Fuckers.'' the curse startled Montgomery, not expecting it. ''My own family tries to dose me to get me into finding a husband. Oh you'll manage when you're drugged sweetie. Like – um – stop normalising rape because great-great grandpa thinks it's acceptable, he's over two hundred years old?!''

''You're blaming the purebloods.'' Tom Riddle noticed. That was dangerous.

''I'm blaming pureblood _culture_. Given our small percentage compared to the muggles it's natural that they feel threatened, but they don't want to mingle with muggles and muggleborns. In fact, they seek to strengthen their hold on magic by making more pureblood babies – when that's just… really... stupid? If you haven't got any creature blood in you then pureblood interbreeding will ruin your power. I completely understand where they're coming from. It's scary to know that globally magical folk make up less than ten percent.''

''True. Then you mean to say that by using amortentia purebloods are only ensuring that their family line continues. That it's a tool.''

''Exactly! Every pureblood knows how to make it because it's their _insurance_. Most potent love potion is legal and taught in schools so ambitious muggleborn witches can 'ensnare'. It's legalized and used every day all across the world because of a fear of dying out. The minute a pureblood doesn't want to have sex with someone there's something WRONG with that pureblood. Luckily amortentia can help.'' Tremblay shuddered and said the word 'help' as ironically as possible. ''It's an outdated tool of coercion and considered therapy in many cases where a witch or wizard exhibits 'unnatural' habits, so to speak.''

''Truth be told, Miss Tremblay, I hadn't known many of the things you brought up today.''

Thinking that he sought sources, Tremblay handed him her research papers and noted the citations, defensively. Tom Riddle corrected himself before she thought he was calling her a liar. ''I meant, that all of this is kept so tightly under wraps.''

''It's considered **family matters**. I was shaking out there because of nervousness and a fear someone was going to cut me off. No one before me has gone into such detail before – I double checked that.'' Tremblay gave a watery smile. Tom Riddle patted her shoulder and thanked her.

''You're doing something brave bringing this to light.''

''Yeah. I'm working on a way so people like us can know when amortentia's in our drinks and food. Maybe a permanent enchantment on the tongue.'' She gestured her tongue. ''I don't know. I need resources and people to help me. Few people will. Purebloods can make anything they don't like disappear.''

Tom Riddle scowled, understanding how true that was. How purebloods had pooled their influence and made Abraxas Malfoy immune to the law after he'd killed Nobby Leach all because of loopholes and money. That disturbing power gap needed dealing with.

''I have no doubt, Miss Tremblay, that you'll do a fantastic job.''

Tom Riddle went for the door to leave and find his seat, enjoy the rest of the conference for today, and perhaps sleep off the hangover. On his way out he heard Tremblay call him. He turned to her, waiting.

''We're not broken.'' The seventeen year old said and Tom Riddle honestly envied her for her belief and her unwavering, unfaltering proof in the matter. ''Don't let them tell you otherwise, Montgomery.''

He inclined his head in a grateful nod and left.

Merrythought, Hermione, Draco, and Lena waited for him at their table. Feeling nostalgic he decided to sit with the people he'd come with. Hermione leaned into his space and whispered if she'd made a spectacle of herself the previous night.

Montgomery lied: ''Naah.''

Lena winked at him, but she did it very badly and closed both of her eyes. Merrythought smiled fondly at his dark arts mentor. Something was terribly wrong with this picture. Merrythought laughed at Lena's jokes as the presentations progressed (drivel about updating wolfsbane, unimportant stuff to American extraordinaire Montgomery Goldsmith). Lena smiled at her back. Oh _no_. Lena never smiled like that at people.

Tom Riddle spent enough time around fellow queers to know that something horribly queer was going on. Good for Merrythought getting over her wife and good for Lena getting to know herself better, but the implication of both of his mentors together did not sit well with him.

He tried to focus on the presentation.

Draco Malfoy was waving at Gunther. Hermione wrote notes furiously.

* * *

''SOON!'' The Spanish woman said and gestured her troop of witches and wizards. ''SOON WE SHALL STRIKE!''

''How soon? My kid's got this piano recital and I really wanted to go and see it.''

''When's the piano recital?''

''In about two hours.''

''Honestly, I don't think you can make it, but we'll all try our best.''

''Grazie.''

A witch entered the shadowy area where the rest were hidden from sight and said: ''He's going next.''

''What do you mean he's going next?! PLACES! EVERYONE PLACES!'' to the piano recital person. ''You might just get to see that piano recital!''

* * *

When the presentation ended and a round of applause was had Lena tugged Tom's sleeve. ''I didn't practise much about what we're going to talk about.''

''It's runes. I can talk about runes in my sleep. No practise necessary.''

Lena was happy that Tom felt confident, but she still felt like they ought to go over the material. So, they did. Hermione listened raptly until the topic became _so boring_ that she decided to go and pester Merrythought for duelling pointers.

Gilderoy Lockhart came by then. He slapped Draco on the back good-naturedly, almost shattered his bones, but merrily exclaimed to make up for it: ''HELLO MY DEAR FRIENDS!''

Tom Riddle took out his acacia wand and Lena whispered in Albanian: ''Do it. Kill him. Do it on Lockhart. It'll make you feel better. He's not capable of fighting back. No miracle surrounds him.''

''The fact that he's still alive after swindling so many different people scares me and there must be some hidden power about him.'' Tom Riddle reasoned and put back his acacia wand. Lena buried her head in her hands and groaned.

''I was thinking we could switch.'' Gilderoy Lockhart stated.

''Switch?'' Lena questioned.

''Yes!''

''When do you go?''

''Tomorrow afternoon, but Draco and I must go to Greece for some business and I would most like to speak now and get it over with.'' His twinkles had twinkles. Tom Riddle was astounded by this aberration.

Without meaning to, Voldemort found himself glimpsing into Lockhart's shallow thoughts. An island came to the forefront. A letter written in a smudged hand clutched in shaky hands. Someone was mad at Gilderoy Lockhart and asking him over for negotiation. Try as he might, Lockhart did not abate the stench of fear radiating off of him. Lena sensed it, by her scowl.

''We want money in exchange for this boon.'' Lena, broke, said. Tom, broke, agreed vehemently.

Gilderoy Lockhart gave them a few bags of galleons and while Lena and Montgomery counted while giggling like swindlers, Gilderoy Lockhart dragged Draco to the podium.

The man of the hour got three sentences in before a blackout overcame the conference. A series of 'lumos' and 'lux' spells were shouted. Tom Riddle eyed the exits and found them barred. Anti-apparition wards set in place buzzed. Witches and wizards stood armed with their wands and disarmed anyone that made a sudden move.

Next to Gilderoy Lockhart on the podium was a woman with intense Black eyes.

''My name is Carmelita Garcia Lopez.'' She said, wand aimed at Lockhart and not her throat to amplify her words. ''My associates and I have come here on a mission. Amidst all of you is a _rat_.''

Tom Riddle began to feel uncomfortable. Very.

''This individual has done horrible, unforgivable things.'' Carmelita went on. She eerily resembled Walburga Black and Tom Riddle didn't know how to feel about the fact that he saw Walburga Black everywhere. First in Draco Malfoy and now this Carmelita woman. Freud would have quite a lot of things to say on this matter. ''And he thinks he's gotten away with them.''

Merrythought glanced at Tom Riddle and mouthed: ''Is this about you?''

Tom Ridlde did not know. Lena then leaned over and whispered: ''I mean, who else would it be about?''

Merrythought nodded here, solemn.

Hermione was locking eyes with Draco and communicating via panicked glances.

''But he has not!'' Carmelita said, letting one of her associates take up Lockhart duty as she moved on the podium to speak. ''You have taken him in and revered him, published him in your magazines – and allowed him entry into this conference all under the guise of a false presentation. A false identity he has crafted for himself and you have all been too caught up in your own business to notice! No more!''

Tom Riddle leaned down in his seat and felt a wand aimed at him. ''Careful. No sudden movements.'' Fuck. Fine. Okay.

''Lord Voldemort's still relevant.'' Lena said in Albanian. Tom Riddle swallowed down bile at being found out. Hermione watched Carmelita standing tall and speaking to the conference attendees.

Draco was held at wand point. As was his mentor. He waited for Gilderoy Lockhart to whip up some of his magic and get them out of this in a jiffy. Being held hostage by an anonymous group of witches and wizards was nothing compared to the perils he'd faced.

''I am Abraxas Malfoy's grandson, Draco Malfoy.'' Draco Malfoy began. ''If I am harmed he will not be pleased. He's a very powerful man.''

''I am Alphard Black's illegitimate daughter.'' Carmelita said and Tom Riddle made a noise of recognition. Alphard Black was Walburga Black's younger brother and had had rumours about a Spanish mistress circulating about back in the early 1970s. ''Your ties mean nothing here for aligning yourself with FILTH.'' There they were, those Walburga Black genes. Carmelita seemed to search for someone to lock eyes with, but when she did so with Tom Riddle the act did not seem random at all.

''The end has come,''

Tom Riddle, Lord Voldemort, Montgomery Goldsmith, Abraxas Malfoy's eternal plus-one, Greatest Wizard of His Age thought that a heart attack was going to mince him right then and there. Found out and about to be killed at a conference. The anticlimax was delicious.

Lena and Merrythought looked between each other and thought about taking out their wands and playing heroes (old as they were, to allow the youth to prosper)

When something beautiful happened.

Carmelita turned to Gilderoy Lockhart and sneered: _''This man_ will die for his misdeeds against our kind.''

''God is real!' came Tom Riddle's exclamation.

Hermione looked at him oddly. Lena and Merrythought relaxed somewhat, safe in the knowledge that this was not an attack on Lord Voldemort.

''He has taken our stories and tried to take our memories! But I am Black and we cannot be obliviated. Mind magic is strong with us. His attempt failed, but I pretended that it did not. To take my experience,'' she flung her arms and motioned for the witches and wizards, ''to take all of our experiences!'' Her eyes glowed like death had come. ''It is a crime that must be punished.''

A wizard came with a vial that he forced into Gilderoy Lockhart's blubbering mouth. Veritaserum.

Tom Riddle was so thrilled, so unimaginably happy and content. He relaxed in his chair and didn't even mind having a wand pointed at him. Lord Voldemort had completely become irrelevant to the youth. That was the best thing to happen to him. He laughed because he couldn't help it. Life was _good_.

The witch pointing her wand at him blinked at his behaviour and muttered some choice words in French: ''Is this man well?'' But he couldn't care less! Nobody but Britain cared for Lord Voldemort. Gilderoy Lockhart seemed to be the bigger criminal nowadays.

With the usage of the truth serum. Carmelita started by asking: ''Is your name Gilderoy Lockhart?''

''Yes.''

''You are a pureblood wizard born to Geraldine and Gryffin Lockhart?''

''Yes.''

If anyone tried to stop the interrogation they were immobilised. No killing curses. Lena and Merrythought looked straight ahead. They were not involved. They were not implicated. Tom Riddle took their lead and tried to let Hermione know to relax. She was a Gryffindor and needed being told not to stick her neck out. Draco Malfoy, having figured out that no one was going to treat him special for his lineage, shrunk back and waited for something to happen.

''Do you recognize me?'' Carmelita asked. Lockhart recited back the other's name and occupation and everything he knew of her.

''Did you cast an obliviation charm on me?''

With bated breath half of the audience leaned forward. Hermione was mouthing _no_. A grin stretched across Lena's face.

'' _Yes_.'' Gilderoy Lockhart admitted to his crime

Audible gasps littered throughout the conference area.

Carmelita went on: ''Did you knowingly first contact me in order to have me tell you about my accomplishments which you were going to toss in your next book as you have done to ALL witches and wizards present?''

The witches and wizards hooted and booed, but kept vigil of the attendees. This level of coordination was commendable, honestly.

It was the theatricality of it all that Tom Riddle enjoyed. Anything orchestrated by a Black (even one as illegitimate as Carmeltia) would flourish into art. All of the witches and wizards rotated, asking Gilderoy Lockhart if he had obliviated them and stolen their works. He would reply YES each time with more tremor in his voice than the last.

One passerby tried to put a stop to the procession, but had had their tongue severed with a silent hex by Carmelita. The bleeding stopped because a cauterization spell followed.

The most hilarious part, in Tom Riddle's humble opinion, was that Gilderoy Lockhart had written so, so many books and consequently pissed off so, so many witches and wizards. They needn't even hire any more wands for this stunt – there was enough magical power to go around!

Tom Riddle watched in fascination.

Each witch and wizard raised a book their story had been in and made Lockhart admit under veritaserum if there was anything that they had misplaced.

''Obliviation ... is a strong memory charm. Doesn't it erase memories?'' Hermione asked in hushed tones. She spoke carefully lest someone think she was making trouble. Finding her surrounding calm helped ease her nerves.

''It makes a pocket in your head.'' Merrythought taught. ''Takes the memory in question from its rightful place and shoves it in the pocket.''

''Vacuum.'' Lena interjected. ''Is it not oblivion? It makes a vacuum.''

''Same difference.'' Tom Riddle joined the conversation. ''What people choose to call spells differs from country to country. We can't even agree whether non magicals are muggles or no-majes. That's only with America and England.''

'We call them Fairy Food in Gaelic.'' Merrythought illuminated. Lena awwed at the name, finding it adorable.

''Then ... he botched all of the spells?''

''Have you ever met a Black, Hermione?'' Tom Riddle asked. He had had the misfortune of meeting an abundance of them. Each more gruesome and sinister than the last. They held themselves high and stomped low on anyone that put a toe out of their drawn line.

Gilderoy Lockhart had botched Carmelita's.

''I've met Sirius Black.''

Tom Riddle didn't stop the scowl from crossing over his face. Hermione took notice of it. He schooled it quickly after into a forced smile. She said nothing.

''The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black is mad. All of them have a bout of insanity in them that's nestled deep and waits hungrily. It is the price they pay for being prodigies at Mind Magic. Legilimency and occlumency comes easiest to them. A true legilimens and occlumens can never have their memories altered without realising it.''

Merrythought continued where Tom Riddle left off. ''Meaning that they've got the best chance of entering another's mind and retrieving memories to their rightful place. It was easy for her, too, because she knew to look for any memories with Lockhart.''

Hermione felt ill to her stomach. She clasped her hands over her lips and mumbled something about frauds and disbelief and disappointment. It wasn't every day that you found out your hero was a fraud that ruined other people's lives for profit.

Tom Riddle kept an eye out for the witches and wizards. They were all average looking, having forgotten that they'd done extraordinary things. With their magic and memory returned they took up wands with conviction in pursuit of justice. Why did they attack during this conference – Riddle wondered, but then stopped because REALLY he should mind his own business and live his life. As he was afforded the continuation of his secret persona. HA.

He owed Nobby Leach an apology. God was most certainly real.

None of the involved parties raised Battling a Basilisk and Tom Riddle felt disappointed. He wondered who had fought against a Basilisk. Whom did Lockhart obliviate there?

They dosed Malfoy with veritaserum, pushing him to his knees, and demanding he be a good sport. Failure to comply would lead in death. Draco Malfoy drank the veritaserum.

''Were you aware of the illicit behaviour of your mentor, Gilderoy Lockhart?''

''No.'' Hoarsely, honestly Draco whispered. He looked a guilty, frightened party even though he wasn't. Hadn't Abraxas taught him how to handle aurors and interrogations? Lucius knew. Hadn't Lucius figured to teach him for the sake of the press?

They let him go. He sauntered towards Hermione, towards the public – and fell into a chair near them. His heart beat fast. His face paled. His teeth chattered.

''We are not merciless. All we seek is justice for our misdeeds.'' Carmelita enunciated the next words. ''I apologise for this, but it is a necessity.'' She motioned and the witches holding Lockhart kept him grounded and raised his head. They forced him to look into Carmelita's eyes.

''You're all adults.'' Carmelita said, voice unwavering, unfaltering. She took her wand and aimed it to his throat. Before, much before any of them saw the green light cumulate in the tip of the conduit – Voldemort recognized the spell. ''Avada-''

Unfortunately for those who wanted to see Lockhart burn – the aurors decided to break the wards at exactly that moment. A bout of debris hit Carmelita, ruined her cast, and sent them scattering.

Amidst the chaos Merrythought had an ingenious idea to help the Lockhart Assassination Squad. ''I remember once when this cunt took credit for a project I did and it really made me feel sad. I can't imagine what these poor souls must be feeling.'' She elbowed Lena. ''Plus, it looks like fun.''

Lena grinned, baring her teeth. She gave a clawed thumbs up.

Before Hermione could decide what she wanted to do, Montgomery Goldsmith was already ushering her away. Draco lagged behind them, but seemed to speed up when he realised they were escaping.

Aurors fired spell after spell. They incapacitated, were incapacitated, and much more.

Carmelita hurried after Lockhart. She sprinted with charged, heavy steps. ''Nowak!'' she shouted. A woman – Nowak charged after him, too. There was strength in numbers. Lockhart didn't look behind him, trusting his instincts to tell him stopping would lead only to excruciating pain. Cruciatus currant flared on Nowak's wand. She hit an unoccupied chair. It splintered off from the spell's intensity. Lockhart ran free, laughing from misery.

''Get the boy!'' shouted Nowak, pointing to Draco Malfoy. Montgomery, unapologetically, pushed Draco Malfoy into the fray so he and Hermione could escape. His apprentice gasped in outrage.

''I'm not responsible for his wellbeing.'' He sneered and Hermione saw intensity in his eyes she had not seen before. His hand gripped painfully on the acacia wood. Her vine wood was unsheathed, also.

Aurors helped them escape, shielding them from the worst of it. It was saddening to see them lose when Gilderoy Lockhart deserved whatever came for him, but Montgomery's top priority was escape. Lockhart, surrounded by aurors, screamed at every spell. He forwent playing hero and decided to show his true, cowardly colours for a change.

Carmelita grabbed Draco Malfoy. She used him as a human shield. Nowak tossed his wand after accioing it.

''This is Abraxas Malfoy's grandson.'' Carmelita evoked the power of the pureblood elite. The aurors faltered, aware of what that surname meant in the pure circles of Europe. ''My associates and I go free.''

* * *

Montgomery and Hermione stood off near the exits (barred once more so none of the attackers fled) with the parselmouths. This opportunity Tom Riddle took to asking about the origin of Battling a Basilisk in parseltongue. ''Does anyone have any idea who the real warrior is?''

''That book is horrible.'' Makoto said. Kimiko agreed.

Latifa continued, regretting the day she decided to fly out to Germany. She tried not to be afraid because the attackers had made it pretty clear it was only Lockhart they wished harmed. ''The person is not happy with being misquoted. Lockhart apparently told him that the book was Pro-Basilisk and the title was…what was it?''

''Befriending a Basilisk.'' Fatima supplied.

''Exactly. Totally contrary.''

Tom Riddle disliked listening to purposefully vague answers. Frankly he spoke: ''What is their name and surname?''

''Alexio's his real name.'' Kajo added. Hermione tapped her wand against her open palm as the adults conversed in their language. ''But you may know him under a different name.''

''Yes?'' Tom Riddle pushed.

* * *

Carmelita was allowed freedom, but she used it to threaten: ''Lockhart! I know you have signed a mentorship contract to keep Draco Malfoy safe whilst under your care. What do you think the penalty is if he dies – these contracts gain nothing with money, but are drenched in magic and blood, remember!''

Lockhart's adam's apple bobbed. Draco Malfoy snarled at him to come and do the right damn thing! Aurors told them to stand down. Carmelita pressed her wand to Draco's throat and stared down Lockhart, wearing him down by sheer will.

''He's a Malfoy...'' an auror said.

''This one's a fraud...'' another whispered. They eyed Lockhart.

''But we've got a duty,'' said a third. Eyed the auror badge.

''If a Malfoy finds out we didn't do the right thing when we could have we're out of a job and on the streets.'' The first reminded.

It was the second of the three that shoved Gilderoy Lockhart into enemy territory. It was the first that fired a shield spell around them. It was the third that fired a petrificus totalus at Carmelita.

Merrythought intercepted it. Aspen wood shone in her grap. Lena needn't even move a muscle to have others drop their wands. Her eyes glowed with hypnotic power. She took out an umbrella, black and sleek, from her robe and slammed it against a persistent auror.

''I make an umbrella for that woman so she doesn't perish in sunlight and she uses it to punch aurors in the face…'' Montgomery whispered.

They'd sent very few aurors. Thinking that there would be heroes in the crowd to help, but that was something they got wrong. Scholars and creative minds understood what it felt like to be have something of their stolen and they would kill for vengeance. They'd also underestimated the fear pureblood names could elicit.

Anti apparition wards were down. Carmelita grabbed hold of Lockhart. Nowak had Draco. They turned on their heels to apparate out. Draco Malfoy did something then that made Hermione curse him out beautifully. He made a gesture with his hands, moving backwards into Nowak, and cast a spell wandlessly. It was a knockback jinx that sent Nowak flung back. Carmelita continued, though, undeterred. She would bring Lockhart to justice.

''Come on, Draco!'' Hermione shouted.

* * *

Montgomery spoke with the parselmouths still. ''You say I may know him?''

''Every parselmouth knows Alexio.''

''I haven't heard of him.'' Tom Riddle felt sheepish and inadequate for his ignorance. Askook waved this off and told him that they only knew him when he was ready to be known.

''The only one he's avoided was Voldemort, wasn't it?'' Makoto asked.

''Oh yes! He doesn't like him, not one bit.'' Kimiko confirmed. ''Wasn't it Alexio that started the jokes?''

Voldemort narrowed his crimson eyes, hiding behind glamours. This was another reason why avoided conflict this fine day. In case that he had to fight he would have to drop his glamour for better proficiency. Whoever this Alexio was he was definitely going to be avoiding him.

* * *

The thoughts running through Lockhart's mind were quick and cut up. There was fear for his life mixed with hatred for Carmelita, coupled with a sudden and striking realisation that he needed Draco Malfoy as leverage. That bloody fink was not only auror proof, but could sway the hearts of many purebloods he'd wronged. Carmelita being an outlier.

With desperate fingers he grabbed hold of Draco's robe. When Caremlita disapparated them, all three went with a loud _crack_.

Apparition could be botched in many different ways. Splinching occurred in some when the person didn't know where they wanted to go. Everyone knew of splinching.

Another mistake that was just as deadly was considered shifting.

When two or more people apparated in a side-along and kept thinking and using their magic intently to go somewhere that wasn't discusses displacement knew to occur. That was why Gilderoy Lockhart thought of an island in Greece, secured by magic foul and kept reinforcing these thoughts with the ardent fear of the place where Carmelita would take to be his tomb.

Gilderoy Lockhart refused to be killed for capitalizing on people's foolishness.

He was invited to the island, another thought repeated on loop. He was invited and he could bring Draco with him as he was his apprentice still.

On Lockhart's clean record was a blemish. Aside from Carmelita he had not succeeded in obliviating another. A man that searched Lockhart out, had seemed to know of his obliviation business, and still gave him material to use on his book. ''Basilisks are misunderstood creatures. You seem like you are listened to.'' He had worn sunglasses to obscure his eyes. His skin had been pale for a Greek. Sickly pale. When he moved it was like a stuffed animal trying to regain consciousness. ''Send me the book.''

Gilderoy Lockhart had decided to go in another direction with said book. Befriending Basilisks ? Who ever thought about selling something positive about snakes! They were evil creatures by default. Their evilness was concentrated in their eyes! What devils!

Nevertheless, apparently the man had finally gotten around to reading the book for he sent a strongly worded summons. Which Lockhart found a better alternative than death by mob justice.

He was not a powerful wizard, but the things he could do he did better than most.

Carmelita splinched her fingers off. She fell into the shallow sea. Draco coughed out sand. Gilderoy watched their surroundings. It was dark - the wards outside buzzed knowingly. They would alert the master of the island of intruders.

A scream sounded. Hissing followed.

Lockhart realised that he should have called in advanced. He took Draco and ushered him into the trees. Snakes hissed in different variants, slithering, and curling, and ignoring. The abundance of them had Lockhart's heart beating faster than he claimed he'd drawn his wand and fired against the Head Vampire.

''Gilderoy Lockhart.'' a voice, ancient - **eldritch**.

The two wizards stopped dead in their tracks.

''Alexio!'' Gilderoy Lockhart merrily exclaimed, remembering himself and closing his eyes. He had not enough time to explain things to Draco, he just hoped he would mimic. ''My good man!''

The words were deliberately chosen with care. ''Was my English wrong, Gilderoy Lockhart?''

Draco shivered at the sight of the man. He had no eyes, only holes where they ought to be. His mere presence exuded age. It dripped off of him in abundance. He used history as a veil to coat himself in.

''What? Oh kind sir, no! How could you ever wonder such a thing? Your english is superb!''

That was (un)fortunate. Alexio smiled widely. Hissing grew louder. Bodies of venom and deadly magic advanced. Lockhart had his eyes closed and didn't see.

''Then you admit it... You purposefully misquoted me.''

Gilderoy Lockhart, still under the properties of veritaserum, nodded vigorously and said: ''Yes, yes! Of course! I completely agree.''

''Good.''

A flare of magic attacked Lockhart. He fell over, snapped open his eyes, and then would never blink. Basilisk eyes were a mercy before being consumed. Draco watched as the snakes (smaller than he thought they would) snapped open their jaws and gnawed at his once mentor. He closed his eyes and tried not to vomit.

''Who are you?'' Alexio asked Draco who shook. ''I can hear your magic, do not lie.''

''I am Malfoy Draco. Son of Lucius Malfoy and Narcissa _Black_.'' Black was the more far-reaching surname of the two. He explained being apprenticed to Lockhart. ''I have nothing to do with him.''

''No one has anything to do with him,'' replied Alexio. He walked over to Draco easily the snakes seemed to hiss instructions for him where to walk and they parted like the Red Sea had for Moses. ''Is your grandfather Voldemort's lover?''

''Um… I think those are just rumours, but I really don't know.''

''Good, good. He has money. For trespassing, do you choose death or ransom?'' Alexio leered, cupping Draco's chin in a sooty hand. Draco shivered and opted for ransom. He did not want to end up like snake food.

Shaking him had Draco snap open his eyes. With quick maneuvers Alexio pointed Draco's face to stare at a puddle. He saw himself first, terrified - and then two yellow orbs.

* * *

''Alexio's the first parselmouth to ever make a breakthrough on Basilisks. He's the Basilisk expert. Figured out how to breed them.'' Kajo explained to Montgomery. After Lockhart's disapparition everything had settled. For safety reasons the conference would be cut short and those that had not had the chance to speak would be reimbursed. Lena and Merrythought fled the scene, however. Because they fought against aurors.

''Though, people know him in literary texts as Herpo the Foul.''

Tom Riddle sharply turned. That was the creator of the horcruxes.

For the sake of Merrythought, he asked where he could find him. The parselmouths were happy to oblige.


	16. You are dead. . . to me

The Order of the Phoenix was, by happenstance, situated in Grimmauld Place. Mostly because Sirius Black liked being included in things, especially things of partisan sort. Not to mention that he quite enjoyed spiting his fascist oriented mother.

Walburga Black’s portrait screeched: ''BLOOD TRAITOR!''

Nymphadora Tonks greeted her with a wink. ''Wotcher, Auntie.'' Her hair tingled with magic and switched between angry red and daring orange. She sat down at the dining table and plopped her legs onto it.

''HALFBREED!''

Remus Lupin hobbled into Grimmauld place and sighed: ''Hello, Walburga.'' His eyes glowed yellow at times when handling the wolf was too much of a chore. He kissed Sirius on the way in and sat down next to Tonks. She moved her legs from the table to drape over his legs. They smiled at one another as Sirius went about greeting the guests and trying to silence Walburga Black's portrait.

''MOTHER, SHUT YOUR MOUTH!''

''SIRIUS ORION BLACK, DO NOT SPEAK TO ME IN SUCH A TONE!''

''I'M LITERALLY USING THE SAME ONE YOU ARE!''

''YOU INFURIATING _BOY_!''

''BETTER THAN A SCREECHING BANSHEE!''

''YOUR FATHER WAS WEAK! _I_ SHOULD HAVE BEEN THE ONE TO PUNISH YOU!''

''OH! OH THAT'S **RICH**! YOU THINK A FEW CRUCIATUS CURSES WOULD HAVE MADE ME YOUR PUREBLOOD BLACK PRINCE, DON'T YOU? DID THAT HELP _REGULUS_ ANY?''

At the words, Walburga Black did something Sirius Black could not have expected: she left the painting and went off through others so she didn't meet Sirius' eyes, having recoiled at the mention of her younger son’s name. This was the first time she had left her portrait, or the first time the ones present had seen. Regulus had been her favourite, this much was known. Nobody knew what befell him.

Remus called Sirius over and he slumped in a chair next to his lover and his cousin. ''It's all right.'' Remus whispered, gathering Sirius in a hug.

Tonks' hair turned blue. ''Don't let old Burga get you down, cuz.''

''Oh, I won't.'' Sirius said, sneering like a dog. ''There's no way in Hell I'll let her get to me.''

Alastor Moody and Harry Potter slipped in without Walburga harassing them. They joined the table and waited for two more. The Order of the Phoenix meeting was not yet underway as there was a good bunch of Weasleys to be recruited, but for now this would work.

Moody's magical eye zeroed in on Walburga's empty portrait and it catalogued this for further study. CONSTANT VIGILANCE! Harry Potter laughed at some jokes Tonks threw at him. They were aurors and they were all trained to fight dark wizards. Sirius and Remus were the members of the original Order of the Phoenix.

As any prominent queer person who’d been around for a long time – Albus Dumbledore arrived in style. His apparition followed by multicolour smoke and his robe was fuchsia and extravagant. As any prominent spy – Severus Snape arrived so no one noticed. Not that anyone could after Albus Dumbledore's flourish.

Once all had gathered, the meeting commenced. Kreacher, ever fed up with non-Regulus humans, served people food and drinks reluctantly. Sirius commanded him without perfunctory niceties. Hermione would have quite a few things to say to this kind of haughty behaviour.

Moody opened the meeting, much to the surprise of everyone involved. They cast glances between each other and then at twinkly Dumbledore. He looked straight ahead. Then, taking his lead, everyone else looked straight ahead to Moody.

He hobbled on his peg leg and swirled his eye whilst scrutinizing them all. His hands placed firmly on the dining table, made of wood more expensive than half of the people's homes present. ''You-Know-Who, Voldemort, Tom Marvolo Riddle, whatever you choose to call him... '' A pause for effect, then, ''has returned.''

None reacted, already filled in on this matter. What they were waiting for were instructions.

''We lack in information. He has been missing for seventeen years. This is a slight that cannot stand. It is only through a tip – from a Malfoy no less – that we found this information out. Who was it, Dumbledore?''

All turned to hear more from the man himself. Dumbledore did not disappoint. His eyes were alight as he said: ''Lucius Malfoy sent me a letter.''

Remus asked: ''How do we know that this is not a trap?''

''It could be a ruse made by _Abraxas Malfoy_!'' Moody hatefully said the name. Harry heard mutters and, trapped in youthful ignorance, asked why Abraxas Malfoy would do that. He lacked context age and knowledge brought.

It was Sirius that answered: ''They were lovers. Abraxas Malfoy and You-Know-Who.''

''Voldemort's gay?'' Teenagers latched onto the weirdest of things. Harry didn't know how to feel about that. Obviously it wasn't any of his business and he wasn't against queer people, but given Petunia's upbringing he'd never really considered the openness with which wizards spoke of sexuality. Least of all did he ever consider Voldemort's.

''He can be whatever he damn pleases as long as he's dead.'' Moody's inspiring words elicited a cheer from Tonks. Remus and Sirius exchanged looks of exasperation at Moody's constant barrage of threats and promises.

Dumbledore returned them to the matter at hand, whilst hiding his hand from the public. ''We will need information. Harry, while you train for your upcoming confrontation, may I suggest that we bring anyone into the Order whom we know has tactical knowledge and research skills to laud.''

Harry Potter heard strategy and thought ''Ron Weasley.''

Harry Potter heard research and thought: ''Hermione Granger.''

''The Weasley clan will be joining, of course, but are you certain it is safe to let Miss Granger into this business? She is off on the continent, studying! Perhaps it would be best not to disturb her.'' Albus Dumbledore, never considerate, tried to appear as such.

''If anyone could help us find Voldemort, sir,'' Harry Potter said, ''it's got to be Hermione. She is the Brightest Witch of Our Age. Hogwart's Greatest Mind.''

Albus Dumbledore conceded, especially when Remus Lupin and Sirius Black called Hermione a genius the Order was worth having. ''They used to call Tom, that, too.''

''What?''

He clarified: ''Hogwart's Greatest Mind. Until Miss Granger took his place. I simply fear that if Tom were to find out that we were on his trail – he may retaliate with petty vengeance that won't feel so petty for Miss Granger.''

''Well,'' Harry said, drafting a letter to Hermione in his head already, ''Hermione can always choose whether or not she can help, sir. It's not like we'll be forcing her into anything.''

Moody nodded in accord to his pupil's words. He slapped Harry hard in a good natured way but the boy's glasses fell onto the table.

''You need to stick those on, boy.'' Moody whispered, as if this was a repeated conversation.

''I know, sir.''

''How astute of Mr. Potter as always.'' Severus Snape sneered. Given how it was still summer he wore short sleeved robes in private and the mark was vividly stark on his pale skin.

''Your mouth ought to be sewn shut, turncloak.'' Moody snarled like a rabid dog.

Neither Remus, Severus nor Tonks went to Severus' rescue. Dumbledore tried to placate, but his words were shallow at best. Harry was too surprised by the animosity to do anything but watch.

''Then how will you know of the information I bring to you?''

''We'd do what I wanted done since you came soiled and begging for clemency in 1981! Take your memories straight from your head with legilimency and give it to pensieves to check for credibility. Your kind _can't_ be trusted. If you turned on the side that bought you robes and paid for your potion's mastery and took you in when no one wanted you – then how can we expect loyalty from you?''

Harry, again, ignorant of the facts helped in making this back-story telling more natural.

Remus whispered in hushed tones. ''The Malfoys took Severus in and treated him like he was their ward. Abraxas Malfoy helped pay for whatever Severus needed. After that horrible prank Sirius pulled it wasn't Eileen, that’s Severus' mother, who came to the parent meeting but Abraxas Malfoy. Lucius and he were like brothers.''

''I betrayed that side because it was wrong.'' Snape said. '' _I_ was wrong.''

''Traitors, for any reasons, cannot be trusted because it is in their blood to do so again.''

''The question of betrayal is phrased wrongly here.'' Walburga Black's portrait said. All turned to hear her because this was the first time something smart might come out of her drawn mouth. ''It is not whether or not Eileen's boy will betray this Order of yours, but whether or not Abraxas Malfoy has forgiven him. If he has, then Severus may be tempted to switch sides like all parentless fools. If not, however,'' Walburga laughed, cruelly, ''then all he can do is be resigned to your faction.''

''Huh, Snape?'' Moody elbowed him and it was like elbowing a stack of cards. ''I hear you and Abraxas are chummy in the teacher's lounge.''

''Civil.'' Severus corrected, but hoped for more.

Though, deep down inside he knew that he could never have more. He buried these feelings deeper and thought back on a prodigal son returning with tears in his eyes to his father's sickbed.

* * *

''I am sorry.'' Severus blubbered, on his knees in front of Abraxas Malfoy coughing and heaving and dying. Throughout the sickly noises Severus tried to punctuate his honesty, his earnestness. ''I cannot expect you to forgive me.''

He grabbed hold of a pox riddled hand and wished it upon himself, upon the true Judas of the pair serving their dead lord. ''I had not known he suspected you.'' Lies. He had swayed the Dark Lord's paranoia into Malfoy waters. Anguish overcame him and made him uglier than he already was. He kissed the hand and cried into it, clutching it like a child would a mother's skirt.

''Nothing I do will ever make up for this.''

When the elder's illness calmed, if only to give him reprieve to catch his breath and not die prematurely – Abraxas spoke: ''It was **you**.''

''Yes,'' Severus nodded, confessing his crime of betrayal for love. Did he liken Abraxas, robed in black sick clothes to a priest? Did he hope for absolution? ''You took me in and you – you helped me when no one would – you introduced me,'' the younger man couldn't speak from the tears. ''You saved me from that home and my fate as a Snape.''

Severus didn't dare look at Abraxas as he continued burying his head in the father figure he had always wanted. A young man keened as a much older one silently processed.

''I love you, Abraxas.'' Severus whispered. ''I never imagined he would do this to you.'' He had imagined a clean death for a lover, even one he believed to be a traitor. But Severus had forgotten that their lord was raised muggle. He read muggle classics, among which stood out Dante's Inferno. Traitors were worse than any other sinner, Severus learned from that book.

Frail hands that were once strong enough to wield bats against bludgers cupped Severus' face and held it up so their eyes met. Abraxas was simply there, as if he still did not believe.

''I want you to leave.'' A world of emotions burst in that sentence.

''Abraxas?''

''Severus, _please_.'' It took Abraxas all of the strength he could spare to pry his hands from Severus.

* * *

Merrythought and Lena, alongside Hermione and Montgomery, arrived in Lakeisha Durant's portkey café. Lena laughed wildly, swinging Merrythought and calling her wonderful things.

''My blood was on fire as I watched you fight those aurors!'' The vampire leaned forward and smiled toothily. Merrythought shrugged and said that it wasn't anything special. This elicited a scoff from Tom Riddle. Lena glared him into silence.

''You! You were amazing!'' Merrythought praised Lena and had the vampire will some blood to her cheeks to blush and stammer. They strolled towards the Albanian bottle of choice.

''I shall show you Albanian beaches. They are the most beautiful sight to witness.'' Lena said, ''After you, of course.''

Tom Riddle shook his head. Merrythought grinned like a goof. Nobody could tell these women were over two hundred years old because they acted like young lovers.

Hermione was too busy thinking about Draco Malfoy and where he'd gone and if he was all right to be inspired by love. She paced towards the Rakija bottle, muttering things about apparition displacement and possible arithmancy calculations necessary to see where a person's magical signature was. It was advanced, too much for anything she could come up with.

When Montgomery went to touch the Montenegrin porktey he heard the distinct voice of Lakeisha Durant: ''Mr. Goldsmith, I'd like a word with you.''

This broke Hermione out of her nattering and she looked where Lakeisha Durant sat and noted that she was not alone. Sitting next to Lakeisha was a woman with black hair and bronze skin, her back was turned. But the other woman’s face could be clearly seen. She was the kind of pale that burned easily in the sun, but sunbathed because of the fashionableness. She was facing them with an aristocratic face Hermione had seen in a portrait in Malfoy Manor.

''Mon frère.'' The latter woman said easily and addressed her mentor who looked as pale as a sheet of thick acrylic paper.

''Ma sœur.'’ Montgomery greeted back and looked back to Hermione, gesturing that she ought to scurry along. Hermione didn't know whether or not she ought to, given the circumstances.

''You're Antoinette Malfoy!'' Hermione remembered asking Draco about his grandmother and his avoidant reply. She remembered Abraxas Malfoy, distraught, exclaiming: ''She's dead! Antoinette Malfoy is dead! Never bring her up again, please, thank you – au revoir!''

The first woman turned and grinned: ''Hello, hello, my fiancé!''

Hermione turned, flabbergasted as she took in the sight of this snake man. '' _You're_ engaged?''

Montgomery liked to think of himself as married to research and engaged for laughs. The truth was sadder.

''Have you ever heard of this magical expression,'' Montgomery began, but he felt cornered and why had his mentors left him and why was Lakeisha Durant giving out information of her travellers, ''that if you cannot grow a beard you ought to marry one?''

''Can't say that I have, sir.''

Antoinette Malfoy stood from her chaise and straightened out her impeccable robe. It was as black as her heart, Abraxas had often described her choice of wardrobe. She strode towards Montgomery and ignored Hermione wholeheartedly, speaking in rapid French so the girl did not understand.

''Are you well?'' ''Yes.'' ''Are you sane?'' ''I'm getting there.'' ''Was that you during the Quidditch World Cup?'' ''How do you –'' ''Lucius.'' ''Mummy's boy.'' ''True.''

''Are you really Antoinette Malfoy?'' Hermione narrowed her eyes and interrupted.

Antoinette Malfoy blinked at the question. She regarded Hermione like a small kitten which she had half a mind of drowning in a sack. ''I was. I'm back to being Mercier now.''

''But you're _alive_.''

''Does my ex-husband still keep telling people I'm dead?'' Antoinette laughed cheerfully. She turned to the other woman next to Lakeisha and warmly said: ''Lilith, dear, Abraxas keeps telling people I'm dead.''

Lilith, Montgomery's fiancé, laughed. ''I can't believe he still does that petty thing. Orion Black stole my jumper without asking for permission. He is dead.'' Then she said the words. ''Dot dot dot – _to me._ ''

Hermione did not believe she had ever met a pettier man than Abraxas Malfoy. She didn't believe there could be someone pettier.

Antoinette grabbed both Hermione and Montgomery to drag them to sit with Lakeisha. Before any of them could order Lilith had done so already. Turning to Montgomery, Lilith said: ''I got you that fruity drink you like.''

''Thank you.'' He sounded suspiciously British.

Hermione drank water and contemplated this turn of events.

Everyone was speaking French and Hermione didn't know how to feel about being left out like this, again. She began to doubt things. That was never a good thing because with doubt came questions. How did Montgomery Goldsmith – a man in his forties – know Antoinette Mercier – a woman in her seventies – as if they had all grown up together? It was strange. All of it! The bubbly manner of Antoinette's, the calm demeanour of Lilith, and the watchfulness of Lakeisha.

Hermione said she'd go to the loo. But in reality she hid behind a pillar. The witch wanted to test something out and sate her doubts. That age spell Gunther had cast looked like fun. She cast it on Antoinette: sixty-nine. On Lilith: seventy. On Lakeisha: forty-four. And then on her mentor.

**Seventy-one.**

Hermione scrambled to cast again. And again. And then she cast on herself. And on Francois: twenty-seven, damn. And then she cast _again_. And the result was the same. Oh my! Oh wow! Oh why?!

Awkwardly Hermione went back to sit with the elderly gentleman and distinguished ladies.

''We used to call ourselves the queer quartet.'' Antoinette smiled and had Lilith explain. They were kind of cute, these old ladies. ''Your mentor had my husband, I had Lilith – and Lilith should have had your mentor but he chickened out – that is the expression yes?''

''You know Abraxas Malfoy?''

Montgomery, sagged in his seat and sipped on his fruity drink. ''Which one of you knows that spell?''

Lakeisha and Lilith raised their hands.

''All right.'' Montgomery finished his sipping and answered plainly: ''Yes. We dated. Hello, I'm Lord Voldemort.'' Before he could see Hermione's reaction he said: ''Lilith Selwyn and I are technically engaged because we were both seeing married people and it seemed like a loophole for double dates.''

''Queer quartet.'' Antoinette pressed on.

''Not all of us played any instruments, Antoinette – that name never made any sense.''

''I like it, sweetheart.''

''Oh, side with your amour as always, Selwyn.''

''Wait, wait, what the bloody hell do you mean you're _Voldemort_?''

''Say that line!'' Lilith shouted.

''Oooh say the line.'' Antoinette jeered, tapping her fingers against each other quickly and elatedly.

What was it with lesbians jeering at him? Voldemort did not know.

Whilst shaking his head, he indulged his friends. ''Lord Voldemort is my past, present, and future.’’ Then to the elderly ladies: ‘’Are you satisfied?''

''Yes!''

Hermione asked again, because she was sure that this was a joke. It had to be.

Her mentor liked to make funny jokes. She recalled a joke that he'd made their first night together. '' _I'm the retired head of a magical terrorist group. I moved to Montenegro to avoid prosecution.''_

''NO!'' Hermione aimed her wand at him. ''I-I’ll **_SHOOT_**!''

''There it is.'' Voldemort shook his head, ruefully. ''Drop the wand, Hermione.''

''No.''

Lakeisha Durant snapped her fingers, and given how she poured all of her magic in the café so that it practically served as ancestral land (which amplified magic) the wand flew into the witch's hand without problem.

''I'll run.''

Lilith and Antoinette brandished their wands. ''You were saying, love?''

She turned to her mentor – to Voldemort, and demanded: ''What are you going to do? You can't harm me because the contract makes sure of that. Having my mind altered counts as a violation.''

''If I do it.'' Voldemort said. ''Lilith, Lakeisha, sort yourselves out. Montenegro awaits.''

''Where are the people?'' Hermione turned around and noticed vacant sofas.

''The portkeys have been annulled for the time being. They'll be back in an hour.'' Lakeisha smiled.

''Why help him? He's Voldemort!''

Lakeisha shrugged. ‘’I couldn’t give a fuck about your British matters.’’ Ah yes, Lakeisha was actually an American. ‘’Monty’s good business.’’ She winked at him and he smiled. There was history here, some that Hermione really couldn’t be bothered to know.

''Careful how you talk to my fiancé.'' Lilith snickered.

_''Selwyn.''_

''There was nothing to that marriage. It was a farce.'' Antoinette explained to Hermione who could not care less about the failed marriages of Lord Voldemort. ''Besides, he occupied Abraxas so I rarely had to do my wifely duties. Now that we're on the topic of my ex-husband, why did you poison him?''

''Traitor sold information to Dumbledore.''

''Mhmmm.'' Selwyn and Antoinette smiled ''Noo.''

''What do you mean _no_?''

''You got that wrong.''

Ice crept into Voldemort's bones. ‘’Explain.’’

''Yes.'' They nodded, both of them. But it was Antoinette that delectably said: ''It was Severus Snape, he confessed himself. I never fancied that boy, much. That ghastly woman saddled Abraxas with caring for him – for what, again? A fleeting high.'' If Voldemort disliked people with substance abuse problems, than Antoinette _loathed_ them.

Voldemort demanded proof. Antoinette allowed him entry into her mind while Hermione was held at wandpoint. He perused the crying, snivelling traitor on Abraxas' sickbed and felt sick himself.

''Oh.'' He said, startled. ''No. This is bad. I do believe I’ve fucked up a perfectly good relationship.''

''Who sold information to Dumbledore was the least of your problems, you toxic idiots.'' Lilith said. Antoinette agreed. They high fived. ''You two never communicated. And I don’t think either of you ever apologized when wrong. Also, did you ever, you know, outright told one another that you loved each other?''

Before Voldemort could reply to that and say that while most of what they said was true, it was still a good relationship – Hermione rejoined the conversation. ''I take back my drunken rambles.''

''Have them.'' Voldemort returned, hurt by such an admission, but too discombobulated by learning that he’d poisoned the wrong person to give it another thought.

''This is horrible.'' He kept on. ''I'm a paranoid mess of soullessness. Abraxas is going to kill me.''

It was Lilith that cast the obliviation charm on Hermione, telling her that whatever she'd learned whilst sitting with them would be forgotten. Meaning that whatever Hermione had learned behind that pillar would not.

Dazed, Hermione blinked and asked what had happened. Francois handed her water in which he'd placed a drop of veritaserum.

''Hermione, do you know who I am?'' Voldemort asked, frazzled because he was still thinking about Abraxas.

''You're Montgomery Goldsmith.'' Hermione looked at him oddly.

''Ah. Ok. Let's go back home.''

So, they went.

* * *

Abraxas Malfoy liked teaching practical bits of magic. Theory he abhorred because reading had never been a fun activity for him. Tom Riddle finished reading a book in an hour while he struggled with it for days, sometimes a week. Light reading for some was hard for him. Letters would bounce around and none of the teachers cared so his marks dropped and, in turn, he stopped caring. What did a Malfoy even need high marks for? It wasn't as if he was going to work – goodness forbid. Malfoys were all independently wealthy.

''The patronus charm.'' He announced their lesson. People wondered if he could pull it off. Albus Dumbledore begged him to get rid of it from the curriculum, saying that it had never been taught, but Abraxas swore he could cast it. He _hoped_ he could still cast it.

Tom Riddle didn't teach it to him because he'd only managed to cast it once before splitting his soul and then never again. Walburga could cast one and decided to tutor Abraxas. Hers had been a mongoose (but shhh! People didn't know such an undignified fact)

He lined up the students (all years, anyone that wanted to listen in as he'd made attendance a choice) and gave them all a short introduction to the uses of the charm. ''It's good against dementors, but it can also be used to cheer people up when they're sad.''

''What about sending messages?'' Ginny Weasley grinned.

''Yes, you can send love notes via patronus,'' Abraxas drawled. He put his weight onto his cane and it embedded in the cool marble beneath. There really ought to be more warming charms placed around the castle. He had never noticed how cool and draft-prone Hogwarts was. He'd always had good circulation as a youth, quidditch and love had helped.

''You need to think of a powerful memory that makes you happy.''

* * *

''THINK GAY THOUGHTS!'' Walburga Black's teachings as she hit him physically with a decorative pillow entered Abraxas' mind. That was never a problem for one Tom Riddle pining aristocrat.

* * *

Standing under the scrutiny of children put abundance of pressure onto Abraxas' already weary shoulders. He gripped his wand (not the hidden yew) and enunciated the words carefully: ''Expecto patronum.''

From the tip of his wand glowed white mist that shifted from formless magic into a sliver of what used to be his patronus. Cheers in awe and surprise littered the classroom. At that a smile tugged at his lips. Luna blinked bemusedly and Ginny _hooted_.

The light string of magic morphed into an animal, wispier than Abraxas remembered it. It was a snake, small and beady eyed that slithered through the sky and mingled around students, hissing at them jovially.

Abraxas' illness chipped at him more and more as time went by. Invisible weight pushed him down, a cough decided to interrupt his spell, and tears sprung up in his eyes as if he'd been cutting onions and the burn in his chest sprang in his eyes. He leaned some more on his cane and said that he apologised. ''Children, I'm not the wizard I used to be.''

The more time passed the more he considered brining some of his peafowl's to Hogwarts. They helped. They had always helped, no matter what hardship he went through they served him a constant comfort.

His students took the initiative and when they failed were given Malfoy points for trying. ''Should I bring in candy to lessons, would anyone like that?'' Abraxas asked. He'd personally never been fond of sweets, electing to eat healthy because of his athletic nature. A loud chorus of YES had Abraxas laughing.

Nobody got the lesson right away, but some of the children did succeed in producing mist from their wand (Ginny and Luna from the Seventh years, that Hufflepuff girl that helped him spell professor, tall Ravenclaw for fourth year, and Astoria Greengrass in sixth year)

Astoria Greengrass was intimidated by him during her lessons, Abraxas realised a lot later than most professors would have. She kept her head down for most of their lessons, only spoke when spoken to, and wrote with a steady hand all of her essays (but they were pretty airy and went around the topic meaning that she hadn't read the material and didn't know how to give a concise answer)

''To all of you who've managed to produce a non-corporeal patronus I award fifty points each.''

The children looked pretty dejected at what would have made his generation thrilled and cheerful.

''We're used to you giving us money.'' Ginny explained. She was the boldest of them. Astoria snickered. Luna owlishly blinked and her eyes were very fey. Abraxas Malfoy needed to watch out for this one. Most of the new families in magical Britain forgot about the Few Fairy Families.

It was wrong to assume that the Malfoys were all like That because of Veela relation. Veela relation faded after a while and the humanity returned tenfold harder. But fairy relations? That never faded, but simply sparked in some harder and brighter than in others.

Lovegoods sought truth out and saw many things that others couldn't see. They had the sight. Not particularly prophetic, but they did see differently. Ollivanders picked apart fairy trees to make conduits for magic use. It took a lot of fae nature to know which tree went with which combination of cores available. Malfoys, well, they had a viciousness about them that no other family could rival. The Blacks were too pure to mix with fairies, not realising that the purest of magic came from fairy kind. Malfoys took fairies and veela and halfbloods in with the same respect they would afford a pureblood bride.

Abraxas took his robe sleeve and shook it, from it slipped galleons. It was a nifty summoning charm he'd perfected in the 1970s. Everyone assumed the money came from his Gringrott's vault – they would be wrong. Abraxas would never be so stupid to keep all of his money only in one place.

''HE'S MADE OF MONEY!'' one soul exclaimed.

''HOLY SHITE HE'S ACTUALLY A WALKING GRINGROTTS ACCOUNT!''

''HOW'D YOU DO THAT?''

''I got inspired by muggle magic tricks.'' Abraxas grinned happily. He handed the money to his stellar students. Then to the less fortunate students he said: ''Children, let this be motivation. In this world we live in now, drenched in capitalism, the only way up is with money.''

The speech Abraxas Malfoy went on to give was uninspiring, in fact, with the statistical know-how he produced it was frightening to listen to. Because it simply cemented the idea of there being social elite and to enter it would cost _an arm and a leg_. An expression which here sometimes meant literally, depending on the sobriety of aforementioned elite.

The next lesson on the agenda – for all that wanted to learn – was going to be the Riddikulus spell to fight off Boggarts.

''You know, actually – you can use whichever spell against a Boggart.'' Abraxas taught when someone stuttered out that they were too scared to pronounce the spell. ''It doesn't necessarily have to be the Riddikulus spell, just as you can kill someone with perfectly legal spells that children know.'' The knowing purebloods exchanged glances, remembering their parents’ warnings of Abraxas Malfoy's creativity. ''Though, nowadays Boggarts aren't nearly as big of threats as they used to be. They live in rural households and those always have elves at the ready to banish them.''

Ginny raised her hand, bold, and asked to go first.

''Sure, sure.'' Abraxas unleashed the Boggart from its container and it took form of Ginny's biggest fear. The students looked on in trepidation, clutching onto their wands and waited.

Ginny didn't even let the Boggart speak or move before she quick shot the spell at it. It dissolved and fluttered back into the container.

''Ten points to Gryffindor and here's some more money. I hope you all are saving up!'' Abraxas admonished his big spender students and told them that until they became independently wealthy they ought to never spend frivolously. Then to the purebloods: ''Remember that you can be cut off at any moment for whatever mistake your parents deem unacceptable. Be your own people! Do not depend upon others because they will leave you in your time of need. Not even your amours will stick around when you become less of what they're willing to tolerate.''

Many of the students succeeded, were applauded, and laughed in the face of their fears. Abraxas leaned always behind the container so the Boggart didn't see him. He had a convoluted relationship with his Boggart. His Greatest Fear was one that no child in his care ought to ever see. The worst part was, Abraxas knew, that some of the students might even relate.

The children whose pronunciation skills weren't as quick as the others cast laughing jinxes at themselves and in turn laughed the Boggart into shapelessness.

''Magic is all intent. Anyone that tells you to limit yourselves is a fool.'' Abraxas taught. Everyone listened. ''If you can't summon cheer on your own, force it on yourself. It'll fade. It's your magic. You need to own it, children.''

Luna's Boggart was confused. Abraxas Malfoy laughed at it. A Boggart could not determine her fear. She thought differently than most humans. Seers, too, had difficulty in materializing a Boggart. The poor thing slinked off into its container without a word. Luna waved goodbye to it with a small smile.

''Good work, Lovegood!'' Abraxas clapped and everyone followed suit. Ginny grabbed hold of the witch and kissed her passionately. To be so open and blasé about such things! Truly, they had come a long way. Tom Riddle feared of hand holding even in empty dormitories. Maybe if he'd been a Gryffindor… No. There was no point to dwell on dead men and their matters.

The last to attempt was Astoria Greengrass. She looked ill even though she was being cheered on by her peers. There was a no bullying policy in Abraxas' class. They were all on this learning journey _together_.

Astoria Greengrass' Boggart was a familiar face.

'' _You_?'' Boggart Abraxas snorted in disbelief. ''You think you're worthy of the Malfoy name? Goodness! Lucius, you can't be serious that this silly CHILD is going to marry our Draco? Have you any sense? I don't accept her. She is unwelcome. As the pater familias of the Malfoy line it is MY WORD that has weight.''

Abraxas Malfoy, the real one, buried his head in his hand, and cursed colourfully in French. They'd argued often about this, he and Lucius. Sometimes in plain sight where anyone could see. The possibility of the Greengrass girl being terrified of not belonging in her new family was… strange. He'd been the same way to Narcissa and she'd conquered her way into the family. It had emboldened her, this shunning.

He stepped in front of the Boggart and shielded the now-crying girl. Pushing her out of the Boggart's vision had the thing confused, once more. But this time. Abraxas sucked in a breath. He gripped his wand and wondered if he could cast a spell or if his illness would drag him down.

A woman.

''Mon fils.'' She greeted. Her voice was like glass shards that _cut_. That buried into him like a slicing hex and remained there even after the skin had healed with magical aid.

Abraxas glanced over to see if his class was okay. They were. He pleaded with Luna and she understood, signalling others to leave and that the class was over. Ginny and she were the last on their way out.

'' _Look at me!''_

Yvette Malfoy demanded with utmost severity. Boggarts knew some form of legilimency because the dialogue it took from Abraxas' mind was exactly how he remembered his mother.

''You're dead.'' Abraxas Malfoy's wand arm shook as he aimed the tip of his wand at the Boggart. ''I buried you in 1956.'' He spoke in French, defaulting because she triggered that in him. His mother had a way of making other people submit to her ideas and notions of propriety. Whether by cutting up his peacocks in front of him when he misbehaved or when she decided to cut out the middleman and attack him directly.

''I was completely right.'' Yvette – not Yvette not Yvette – it was a Boggart that laid out Abraxas' worst fears in front of him. He hoped Luna had sent someone. A cough started.

''Look where you are – friendless – partnerless – wifeless – _motherless_.''

Abraxas remembered Thoros Nott's exasperation. That was a friendship made of duty to uphold alliances between families. The cough squeezed his lungs and Abraxas took a step back as Yvette Malfoy advanced. She was so young when she died, Abraxas noted her youthful features, akin to Narcissa's. Father had been younger. She was so bitter when he died and had decided to make Abraxas into the proper Malfoy heir worthy of his late father's name.

Minerva McGonagall had a life debt to him. Perhaps she felt that he would be cross with her if she didn't make friends with him? Maybe he was only annoying. Maybe he was only _ever_ annoying.

Antoinette Mercier had only married him because they literally paid the other's family. Abraxas was to wed Walburga and elevate the Malfoy name by merging with the Black family, but due to differences in life's philosophy Abraxas had broken his off. Walburga, in a rage, had demanded to keep the Black family pure of filth and idiocy. Antoinette Mercier came as salvation, but she never loved him. Their marriage had been of convenience until it wasn't convenient enough for her. Abraxas thought and took another step back, but the Boggart took two forward, cornering him.

''And that one.'' Yvette Malfoy sneered, inferring to Abraxas Malfoy's love, ''that one never loved you. He only ever cared for the money and prestige aligning to you brought him. You are alone and suffering, Abraxas, surrounded by people that couldn't care less about you. If you were not a Malfoy you would be-''

''RIDDIKULUS!''

Yvette Malfoy transformed into a cauldron that sang musical numbers. It scurried back into its container after this.

Abraxas didn't notice that he'd been crying. He didn't notice that anyone had entered the classroom. He hadn't noticed Severus Snape gliding to him in quick steps and carefully helping him compose himself. Severus cast soothing charms and scourgify and asked him if he was all right.

''When she died, I charmed all of her portraits silent.'' Abraxas explained, shuddering at the thought of the real Yvette Malfoy and what she would have done to him were she among the living still. ''Upon question, I told everyone that it was done as a rite of mourning. That I could not bear the voice of my mother's leftover magic.''

Severus waited, easing Abraxas in a conjured chair. The elder ran scarred hands through his long hair in anguish.

''I was lying, of course.'' Abraxas raised his wand and said: ''There's an old wives' tale of willow wanded wizards. We've all got these… what was it, forgive me my brain has stopped for a moment – fear? No, _insecurity_. Yes. It's humiliating for people trying to guess what it is. Walburga would make a game of it; she would encourage everyone in her social circle to have a go. Antoinette would often tease me about it, not understanding that it was a sore topic for me. Tom Riddle never guessed. Never even attempted. I think he did that because he knew.''

Once Abraxas was safe to stand he crutched from silently sullen Severus.

''Thank you, Severus.''

Severus stepped forward and asked, wringing his hands together in insecurity. They had been parental figure and bloodless son once, before betrayals and pox poisonings. ''Are we good?''

''Good?''

''You don't act vile towards me.''

''Oh.'' Abraxas simply thought that affording civility to another did not immediately constitute fondness. How wrong he was! Severus, ever desperate for father figures had latched onto Abraxas. ''Severus, I afford you courtesy in public. I would not want others to feel sorry for you if I were to cut you down with my words, if not my magic.''

Severus gulped down a ball of anxiety that had lodged in his throat. He nodded because that was all he could do.

Abraxas, sensing that more was necessary, went on: ''I apologise if I had given you the impression of my caring. At first, after finding out that you had betrayed Tom and I'd gotten the blame for it – I was furious. That anger petered out gradually. Though, hear me, Severus. Hear me, please, for I shan't repeat it.''

Severus listened, his eyes glassy. He looked like his mother Eileen. Abraxas had nothing but respect for that woman, even if she had married wrong and given birth to a turncloak.

''The love I had for you, that of a father for a son – that, Severus, evaporated a _long_ time ago.''

They parted ways. Abraxas, leaning and swaying and trying to go to his room without aid, hit a wall. Abraxas furrowed his brows. It wasn't a wall. Walls weren't made of black tar and magic.

'' _You know.''_

Familiar red eyes bore into his silver.

'' _You knoow.''_

Black tar slipped from the form and allowed a smile made of jewels to shine.

'' _You knooow what, **Abbie**.''_

Abraxas warily, wearily inhaled and exhaled. ''What?''

'' _I want to talk to you.''_

A hand shot out from the magical mass and pulled Abraxas into it.


	17. We should totally just stab...

The Basilisk had many names throughout her long life. She was named Helga by her first master, much to the chagrin of the one he called her mother. When her first master left her the second master came much later, but her mother always came to feed her and take care of her. She kept her secret from the Red Loud Man and the Bird. The Bird scared her because she wanted to experiment on her. Her mother never let this happen. She was very sad when mother died.

Her second master was a mistress named Gaunt. It was a funny name. She called her Jormungandr. She didn't like the name. To go from Helga to Jormungandr did not feel right, but sometimes her mistress would call her Jormy and that seemed nice. She taught her to feed on human flesh. She taught her to attack. Mistress was kind to Jormy as long as she did as told. Jormy didn't want to disobey and be alone. But mistress left.

Her third and fourth and fifth and sixth and seventh and so on masters and mistresses were all the same as Gaunt. Her name did not change. It was passed down in the family as fact.

Then the Gaunts stopped coming. Jormungandr grew lonely once more. She would go to the surface pipes and listen in to students talking and laughing. Jormy wished to be part of their world, to see the children, to have fun as she had once upon a time with her mother and father.

Then came a new master, ages after Jormy figured she would never again speak to a Speaker.

He stumbled upon her home accidentally. Under his arm was a book and she was reminded of her mother reading to her stories. She hissed in glee, advancing towards him. He took out his stick and screamed in fear, dropping his book.

_''What are you reading?''_

The boy – he was so small! Small! Small! Her hisses lilted with happiness and her form swished around him. He was of the first master's blood because he did not need to hide his eyes. They could see each other. None of her masters or mistresses looked like her mother. This saddened her very much.

''Um,'' the boy who was her master crouched down and lifted up the book to her eyes, ''it's Dante's Inferno.''

_''Read to me! Read to me!''_

When he acquiesced she nudged him playfully with her head and when he patted her she felt so happy. So nice. So loved. _''You are good. You are kind. You are mine. Mine. Mine.''_

His name was Tom Marvolo Riddle. He would come by her every day to read to her. When they finished Inferno he read her Purgatory and then Paradise. She liked the books. She liked being read to. She liked having a family. Tom Riddle never asked her things, only came and read to her. He would pet her and call her smart and good and nice.

One day he asked her for her name. ''What are you called?''

She was silent. She did not like being called Jormy or Jormungandr. Helga was a long time ago.

''What do you want to be called?''

This was a first. She thought long and hard, sizing up this small bite-sized Speaker. Her eyes he stared into without problem. There was blood involved in the ritual that made her gaze harmless to those of her father's blood.

She recalled the books read to her and dissected with a boy that thought of death and the afterlife too often.

_''Beatrice.''_

Tom Riddle tilted his head, tasted the word on his lips: ''Beatrice.'' And decided it suited her just fine.

''It's good to meet you, Beatrice.'' He bowed to her and she hissed happily, hitting him with her tail and knocking wind out of him. Beatrice forgot how big she was often. It never ceased to amaze her how small her master was.

The trouble began when her master decided he would be called Lord Voldemort. Beatrice gladly called him this. She would be his first follower.

''Lord Voldemort,'' grinned he and lazed on her long and wide body, ''is my past, present, and future, Beatrice.'' He asked her about her father and when he realised that he came from her father's blood he was ecstatic.

''I am no mudblood!'' Lord Voldemort screamed. ''I am Salazar Slytherin's heir! Ha – **ha**! Fuck you, Mrs. Cole – fuck you, Walburga! I **am** a somebody!''

Beatrice asked him if he could let her out. Her previous masters and mistresses had.

''Um.'' Lord Voldemort rubbed the back of his neck and whispered, ''You know... Beatrice, that's kind of not something I'm comfortable with doing.'' But then, upon closer consideration and Beatrice giving him her sad-ol-snake-eyes. ''Fine.''

Beatrice went up through the pipes and they opened at her master's command.

A series of unfortunate events followed.

Voldemort, ever curious, asked what would happen if Beatrice looked at someone other than himself. Beatrice, kept in captivity most of her life, decided she, too, wanted to give that a try.

People were petrified. Tom Riddle was terrified. Beatrice was confused. The school was in pandemonium. He locked her away and said: ''You know!'' Then, when the panic of the situation caught up with him. ''You knoow!'' and when the full picture struck him: ''You know what, Beatrice?''

_''What?''_

''I think we shouldn't see each other for some time. They're gonna close the school, Beatrice, and I can't go back to that muggle orphanage. People are cruel to me there.''

_''Bite them.''_

''I used to do that as a kid, but they beat it out of me.''

_''Look at them!''_

''Ha, if looks could kill!''

_''Mine can.''_

''You've only ever made people into stone, Beatrice.''

_''Aren't they dead?''_

''No, it's reversible.''

 _''Oh.''_ Beatrice thought. _''But I heard one of my masters say I am deadly.''_

''Maybe it's because you've never looked at them directly.''

_''I want to try! I want to try!''_

Myrtle Warren died on orders from a peeved Lord Voldemort who did not like to be stalked by lovesick little girls. He had been reading books and listening to Beatrice's pieces of magic. She wanted to help her master with his fears of mortality. One of her previous mistresses had mentioned a soul spell. The ritual was like when Beatrice fed. Her master was so smart! So good! So bright!

She hissed and he hissed and his magic _swirled_. Powerful and intense.

But then a bird came. Not the Bird, but a bird. Master had taught her the difference.

''WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!''

Lord Voldemort lifted his magic smeared head and blinked in disbelief at the bird, at the peacock. ''What are you doing here, Malfoy?''

Ah! Beatrice thought. The Malfoy! That was the Malfoy Lord Voldemort spoke of often. He had to tutor a boy and couldn't spend much time with her.

''What am I doing here?'' Malfoy whispered and approached Lord Voldemort. ''I'm searching you out.''

''Why?''

Beatrice hid in the pipes and listened. She closed her eyes because form her master's words she understood that the Malfoy was important.

''Tom,'' Malfoy said and his voice was drenched in fear. Beatrice could feel it. It tasted delicious. More. More. More. Myrtle Warren falling had fuelled Beatrice in a way she had never felt like before. This was her purpose. This was her nature!

She slid up from the pipes and moved towards where her master was. One wrong move from this Malfoy and they would have to meet eye to eye. Beatrice hissed a laugh.

''Tom, _what did you do_?'' the horror in his voice had Beatrice realise that this wizard was not ready to be enlightened. He would judge. He would make sure her master would suffer. Beatrice knew judgement in voice. She had heard it from her previous mistresses and masters upon speaking of less than pure creatures.

Her master was dazed. Her master needed help to heal. The ritual took out of him. He felt emptier. She could tell. She could tell.

Malfoy grabbed hold of Lord Voldemort and said so softly that Beatrice almost did not hear: ''Come, before anyone sees. I- I’ll help you.''

''Close your eyes.'' Lord Voldemort commanded.

Beatrice stopped advancing.

''What?'' Malfoy said, not comprehending.

''Close your eyes, _now_.''

Beatrice closed her eyes and hissed: _''Why''_

Malfoy closed his eyes: ''Um, why?''

Lord Voldemort led them away as he commanded Beatrice to go back into hiding. Under his arm was a diary he would often write her rambles and his poetry. In her home he forgot the Dante books.

_''Master?''_

''Tom, you need to tell me what this was.'' Malfoy opened his eyes and pushed them both out of Beatrice's home.

''I'm sorry.'' Lord Voldemort whispered, shaky still from the magic conducted and the crime committed. He didn't know who he apologised to.

Beatrice didn't see him after that for a long time. But long was relative. When lonely everything felt long.

She saw Malfoy again. He was good to see. Because she feared of what her master had become.

''Abbie!'' Her master twirled the Malfoy fondly and laughed. Beatrice kept her eyes on her master. He was not the same. He was less and less and less.

''Ah, Tom!'' Malfoy shouted.

Again with that name! Did Malfoy not understand that there was no more Tom Marvolo Riddle as there was no more Helga and no more Jormungandr? There was only Lord Voldemort as much as there was only Beatrice.

Lord Voldemort twitched at the name. Of course he did. Beatrice knew to use proper names. She was a very smart serpent. Her eyes zeroed in on the magic dripping from her master's form. He was without body. Like air riding in liquid. The essence was there, less – less – less.

When the magic drifted in languid movements a show of jewels shone. Beatrice disliked the jewels. She had seen the Bird wear them a long time ago. Then the Sad Girl hid them away. There was a scandal. She remembered her mother trying to play peacemaker.

It was master that brought back the jewels and put them in the Place with Hidden Things. But he put his air in the jewels. Speakers needed All of their air to breathe properly, Beatrice found. But her master had less and less and less.

This was not her master.

Malfoy's magic fell from exertion and he was very different. His skin was full of scars. He should shed it. Could humans do that? Beatrice hoped they could. She always felt nice after her shed, as if starting a new life.

''I wished to butcher you as you butchered my curriculum.'' Lord Voldemort said and twitched. ''But then I saw something much startling than your betrayal.''

Abraxas scoffed: ''This post is free for grabs. Each year a new professor comes and goes and you have not had a problem with that before.''

''OH, BUT I HAVE!'' Lord Voldemort exclaimed and circled Malfoy like predator did prey. ''I was trapped in the Room of Hidden Things for decades, left there by the original to collect dust like some _ornament_.'' Ire bubbled. The shaking intensified. ''Your predecessor, Abbie, dear, dear Abbie,'' he caressed Malfoy's cheek and snickered, ''he was an idiot that sought to cheat the jinx. Well, the jinx has mobility! The jinx can walk wherever it wants or wherever it is told. Usually, though, it follows the DADA professor.''

''The professor went to the Room of Hidden Things to hide from the jinx, you mean to say?''

''By pure accident the fool stumbled upon me. The jinx, naturally, followed. I did what any horcrux would – I possessed the jinx and killed the rude professor.'' A broken laugh. ''I pushed him down the stairs! Abbie, his neck snapped beautifully!''

''That seems to be your modus operandi when it comes to killing DADA professors.''

''Fret not. Lord Voldemort is forgiving!''

Beatrice hissed in agreement. Her master was very kind. Her master was very good.

''I watched your lessons today. The patronus charm cannot be changed by choice. It is something that must be changed within a person's soul.'' The jewels glimmered again. He placed his hands, liquefied as they were, barely tangible on the Malfoy's shoulders. ''You love me, still. Even with your new bride.''

''New bride? What?''

''Antoinette, the French girl.''

''I married Antoinette in 1954!''

''Yes, the year I was created, I believe. Before I was rejected from this post. Or is it he? I do not quite know whether I am me or if I am simply a part of him.''

''You don't have any memories after 1954?''

''No. Not unless we gain them through other means.'' Lord Voldemort sounded sad. He slipped away from Malfoy and twitched again. ''There are 1,658,127,934 things in the Room. I counted them. That was literally ALL I did for DECADES!''

''That's horrifying, _Merlin_.''

''Oh, isn't it _just_?''

''Antoinette divorced me, for your information.''

''A divorce! In 1954?''

''It was 1995.''

''How progressive!''

''Tom-''

''STOP. CALLING. ME. THAT.'' Lord Voldemort lunged for the other and gripped him as hard as his magic allowed. He dug his claws into Malfoy's robes and hissed, eyes sparking brighter than anything Beatrice had ever seen. ''I AM LORD VOLDEMORT!''

The Malfoy stopped silent in his mind. Beatrice saw him try to speak but found no words. Beatrice knew that well. She missed words, too. Her master used to help her with words she did not know.

''I have never called you that.''

Beatrice thought this very rude. If someone kept calling her Jormy when she was Beatrice there would be many looks to go around. Her master was so obliging, so kind, so forgiving indeed!

''Then you may not care for me as intensely as I first thought.'' Lord Voldemort let go of Malfoy and curled into himself, tensing and relaxing his hands. ''Perhaps I was wrong to give you reprieve from my attempts on your life. The patronus may simply be a lie you hold to your heart just as earnestly as I once did.''

''Does that silly name mean that much to you? You've never – you've never said a thing. I figured it was a follower-leader thing, honestly. I fell in love with Tom Marvolo Riddle, not you.''

''Abraxas,'' Ah, the Malfoy was named Abraxas. Beatrice forgot that humans came with more than one name. ''that name is everything to me. It is the name Fate herself has fashioned for me. It is a name which is destined for greatness. _I am Lord Voldemort_.''

Abraxas refrained from scoffing, but it took him a lot of self-restraint to do so. He was rather proud of himself.

But the horcrux noticed. He asked, then, simply: ‘’What is so wrong with fashioning a name for yourself, one that’s untainted by despicable, cowardly muggles who refuse their duty? That name only got slurs thrown at me. Mudblood Riddle. Slytherin’s Mudblood. Tom Riddle was Slytherin’s Mudblood, but I – Lord Voldemort,’’ the buzz, the high, the elation sweeping the horcrux up with nostalgic thought was magnificent, ‘’I am the Heir of Slytherin. This is indisputable.’’

Abraxas thought, for a moment, what it would be like if he changed his name. If he rid himself of the title Lord Malfoy. The thought was freeing, if only for a scarce period of time. Reality crashed into him and he said: ‘’Your name is who you are. I did not fall in love with Lord Voldemort. That madman is not who you are.’’

‘’You fell in love with a subservient boy who was tasked with tutoring you and couldn’t say no because – ‘’ fury, ‘’I was **poor** and you had money and that meant that everything you said was _oh so fascinating_! Do not think for a second that I’ve forgotten how you treated me before you found out my parentage. You pointed and you laughed at me with Walburga as she cast her goons to frighten me from returning.’’

‘’I’ve apologized for that.’’ Abraxas shook his head. A tinge of embarrassment coated his cheeks as he tried coughing into his hand.

The horcrux stared. It hadn’t any memories after 1954. ‘’I hope you did. I truly do. You tried to make Hogwarts a battlefield while another waited for me in the muggle world. You know nothing of war and its consequences.’’

Abraxas said things now that he could: ‘’I know plenty of war’s consequences!’’

Lord Voldemort laughed at him. It was a murky sound, but it was still so soft.

Something seemed to switch because of the mere offensiveness of the horcrux’s words: ''All right, don't pull this nonsense on me, **_my lord_** – I have accepted you plenty more than anyone you could have found –‘’ Lord Voldemort said nothing and the fact that he didn’t meant that he thought this – what Abraxas said – was foolish and childish.

Abraxas refused to yield to the thoughts telling him to stop embarrassing himself. He leaned forward on his cane and said: ‘’I loved you, for starters, even though –'' he whistled '' – you are _very_ **hard** to love. It’s you, you repressed and confused creature that never said it back to me! If anyone's going to talk about being confused and hurt here it ought to be me!''

Lord Voldemort yawned. ''Yet again, Lord Malfoy wishes to make _everything_ about _himself_.''

Self-restraint out the window, and in for a knut in for a galleon, Abraxas went on: ''Try for some semblance of propriety, **_my lord_** as this is a serious question I'm posing. D _o contain_ your dry quips. Would it KILL you to say 'Abraxas, you know what, **I love you, too'**?''

Not quite expecting to go in this direction, Lord Voldemort narrowed his eyes and took a step back. ''Maybe it would, I would not know! I've only got memories up until 1954!''

Abraxas laughed: ''For a poet, you sure skimp on words!''

The horcrux angrily defended himself and the rest of his soul: ''I show my love through grand gestures-''

Having had enough of this charade, Abraxas shouted, slamming his cane down harshly on the cool ground where Salazar Slytherin’s monsters came to feast and congregate: **_''Was poisoning me a grand gesture of LOVE?''_**

It echoed. Ricocheted off of walls. Beatrice dared not move. Abraxas leaned on his stick and panted heavily, running a hand through his hair.

After a small pause, Lord Voldemort pointed to Abraxas' form and stated: ''I did this to you.''

Abraxas admitted, guardedly: ''Yes. Wrongly, too. You thought of me as a traitor when it was another.''

''I marked you like a leper in Jerusalem.'' Lord Voldemort pointed to himself, trying to hold off on uncontrollable laughter. ''Except this Jesus does not heal.''

Abraxas closed his eyes, realising that this was an outdated version of the man he’d loved, that couldn’t hold a single candle to the intricate complexities they’d all gone through over the decades of their entanglement. He opened his eyes and for a brief second saw Nobby Leach instead of the horcrux. His health deteriorated. Only one question remained that, hopefully, this rendering of Tom would know to answer. ''Whilst on the topic of religion… I've got another question for you.''

''Ah, in his time of peril the pagan has sought out God.''

''What's your relationship with Nobby Leach?''

There was a pause. Lord Voldemort tilted his head, thought about answering, and then decided not to.

Beatrice hissed when the liquid split from the air. In Lord Voldemort's stead remained only the jewels.

Abraxas Malfoy took the jewels, shrunk them, and stuffed them in a pocket. He took out a stick and using three legs went out of Beatrice's home. On the way out he did pet her scaly form and whispered that they’d been both cheated with ruminating over soul pieces.

* * *

''I don't understand why he's mad at me. It's not like I killed anyone important!'' Abraxas Malfoy spoke from a facility in New Zealand. The real one, not the fairy invention.

Walburga Black came to visit him and said: ''You killed the Minister for Magic, Abraxas.''

''Oh, please!'' Abraxas waved off. He rolled his eyes, then. ''I killed a Christian mudblood, nothing more. You of all people must agree with me, Walbie, that they aren't even people.''

''I agree.'' Walburga said. ''But killing him has escalated tension into destructive demonstration. We're going to war because of your stunt.'' She sounded like a mother whose children will be caught in a war.

''It's not that serious. It can't be that serious.'' Abraxas hoped. ''Walbie, you're just playing with speculation.'' At her impassiveness Abraxas realised he had done something horrible. When even Walburga Black was too horrified to yell, that was when he realised the true extent to the damage he'd done.

''You better hope.'' Walburga ordered him. ''You better hope to all of the gods you believe in, Abraxas, that Riddle decides to fight for us.''

''Why wouldn't he? We're the same side.''

‘’If you,’’ Walburga bubbled, she clasped her hands into fists tightly and took a fistufll of her robe as she let loose a turret of rage onto him, ‘’HAD PAID EVEN A SMIDGEON OF CARE INTO YOUR SURROUNDINGS YOU’D HAVE NOTICED THAT RIDDLE’S BEEN STRAYING INTO A WHOLE OTHER SIDE. BUT YOU DRUGGED PIECE OF SHITE YOU COULDN’T CARE LESS ABOUT ANYONE BUT YOUR NEXT HIGH!’’

‘’He’s not with the mudbloods surely.’’ Abraxas could not fathom the mere idea. Tom had always been aligned with the purebloods. They’d funded him. They’d tolerated his existence. Abraxas had cared for him. He’d been the first person to love him, Abraxas believed. There was no one other than him that Tom Riddle could ever have a sliver of loyalty towards.

But then Abraxas’ thinking came to a screeching halt. His mouth halfway open in a small ‘o’. The confused haze surrounding his eyes muddled further as clarity sparked, but the tears followed. Tears of horror, of disgust, of undeniable reckoning.

Because before fifth year, before Abraxas Malfoy had been forced into giving Tom Riddle a chance and falling for him, none of the Slytherins wanted Tom Riddle near them. They’d been too afraid of his muddy blood and his inferior surname and his hand-me-down robes. They’d call him names even when he would score them a plethora of points and scholastic lauds. It was what they’d all been taught, after all.

During this time. This unforgettable time, this very important and formative time – there’d been a friend. A friend who rallied people like him, who wanted a better world, an equal world. A friend who Tom had cut ties with in favour of Abraxas. But, but with Abraxas too far gone in his own wretched amusements that had amused no one but him, and only for such a short time a time, it would be only natural for Tom to seek this friend out again.

Abraxas’ lips curled into a hurt frown. It desecrated him. It cut into him deeply. ‘’Walburga, please, tell me that which I am too afraid of asking you.’’

And Walburga did, never afraid of causing another harm with her words: ‘’You’ve festered in your powders and your addictions for far too long. Riddle’s replaced you without your even knowing. If you thought a man like Riddle would not discard you in order to find someone who could give him more power, then you are a bigger fool than I thought.’’

Abraxas scrunched his eyes shut and shuddered, trying to breathe, but no breath came into his lungs. He placed his elbows onto the table, bent forward, and sicked his nails into his head, wrapping his slender fingers into his platinum hair, and **_pulled_**.

''He's got his own side right now. One without any understanding mudbloods or powerful purebloods'' Walburga derisively said. ''Moron's brooding in a Dementor infested swamp somewhere near Azkaban.''

The thought of Tom, **his Tom,** near so many Dementors sent a chill into his heart that caused the screams at the tip of his tongue to still and quiet. Tom would never allow to be Kissed. This, he tried to breathe, tried to reason with his body and his mind and his terrified soul that he _had to_ breathe – this was Tom’s idea of getting away from everybody. Nothing more. It – it was anything but a suicide attempt.

''When Nobby Leach announced that he would be running for Minister… do you remember that no one in the Wizengamot wanted to back him? Because I do. I remember it vividly. Leach needed someone that could get him the pureblood vote, and Lord Voldemort had pawns that would gladly do whatever it was that their putrid lord needed.’’

Pawns that aligning with purebloods, aligning himself with Abraxas had yielded him. He pulled at his hair tighter and harder and begged for a chance to make it all better. To undo everything that he’d done. His chest heaved and his throat constricted and he wanted to die. He’d never wanted to die more than he did now, in this very moment.

‘’I suppose if you hadn’t been high you’d have noticed. Mayhap you would have even seen reason and influenced Riddle into influencing Leach in a way that would have pleased the purebloods. Though, with Leach’s death, you’ve lost Riddle all of the power he’d accumulated as being the Minister lurking in the shadows.’’ Walburga began to rise from her seat. Abraxas looked up at her, a billowing spectre in black robes. ‘’Dumbledore backed Leach, but only so far. That man was too holier than thou to raise a wand at the Wizengamot. He outwardly supported Leach, but when push came to shove it was Riddle that acquired him the pureblood vote.’’ Walburga tut-tutted, next. ‘’It was rather ingenious, I think. In a backward and roundabout way, by voting for Leach, everyone had actually voted for Minister Riddle.’’

Walburga laughed as the blood drained from Abraxas’ face. The man pulled out locks of his own hair with shaky, shaky, shaky hands.

Pause. One. Two. Three. ''You're _lying_. Tell me you're lying!''

''Get better, Abraxas.'' Walburga said. She looked at Abraxas who was wearing muggle clothes and as parting words added: ''Your stay at this _muggle_ facility may help you more than you know.''

* * *

Tom Riddle stared at two vials in his hands, both identical in size, colour, and label. AM read each vial. Though, the contents differed. One was poison and the other was a cure.

After returning to Montenegro, Hermione shut herself in her room because she'd gotten a letter to read. She said it was from Krum. Love letters were a lifetime ago for Tom.

He weighed the vials as if weighing lives in the underworld. ''Zorka, I don't like playing God.''

''That's a smart thing not to like playing.'' The Montenegrin witch lazed in front of the television and ate a bread and cheese sandwich.

''But… the choice is right there.''

''Choose the outcome you'd like to have happen to you, were the choice in someone else's hands.'' Zorka wisely said.

Tom Riddle threw the vials, switching them in his hands. He did this again.

Hermione barged in with her cat at the moment of the third throw. She was putting on a coat mid run. Her cat scratched at her clothes and hung on them as Hermione ran down in a hurry.

''I'VE GOT THINGS TO DO! PLACES TO BE! SORRY! GOTTA GO! SCEDDADLE! FLEE! BE FREE! BE BACK LATER!''

Tom Riddle blinked at his pupil bemusedly.

Zorka smirked. ''She's going to her boyfriend, eh.''

He nodded slowly at that and then looked at the vials in his hands and reluctantly put them back in the compartments, though, not with utmost certainty that he'd put them back correctly.

* * *

Hermione arrived back to Montenegro with the knowledge that her mentor was a liar. A lot of people lied about their age, but for a few years. Not decades. This smelled rotten to her. Her head hurt from porktey travel.

When they returned Hermione found a bird waiting for her with a letter. She took it and saw that it was from Harry. Opening it she saw: URGENT. TOP SECRET.

She yelled out on quick notice: ''Viktor's written me! I'm going to my room.''

This would put them off of her trail. Not that anyone was on her trail, but her mentor was under scrutiny now. She would watch him carefully. No matter a person's insecurity with aging – there was no excuse to lie about three decades.

There she took out a letter and read it carefully.

Dear Mione,

How are you? I'm swell considering the circumstances. Apparently Voldemort's back and kicking it somewhere abroad. You probably already know about the Order of Phoenix because there's not a damn thing you don't know – anyway, er yeah. This is a recruitment, if you're interested in the task force. Currently it's just a few aurors but Ron's going to join up. All of the Weasleys are probably.

Also, I am questioning a lot of things about myself, my place in the universe, my role as the saviour of wizarding Britain, my sexuality, etc. Did you know Voldemort's gay? I mean, I didn't know it was public knowledge, but it seems that everyone knows. Could be because I was literally a baby the last time that man was relevant.

By the way, how's the apprenticeship going? Say hi to that snake man mentor of yours. Last time I saw him he was preoccupied with staying alive. (damn good song, that)

Maybe ask your mentor since he's a parselmouth if he's heard anything about Voldemort. I don't want to assume, but I assume that parselmouths all hang out and diss other parselmouths. By the way, I can't talk to snakes anymore. Ever since being hit with the killing curse at the Cup. Funny that. Could have used a killing curse back in second year, am I right? (Pretend I'm elbowing you after you read that joke)

Anyway, take care of yourself, Mione, you intellectual powerhouse.

Love,

Harry

Hermione charged to a secret location as far away from prying eyes and lying mentors. Crookshanks latched onto her on the way because cats did that.

''I'VE GOT THINGS TO DO! PLACES TO BE! SORRY! GOTTA GO! SCEDDADLE! FLEE! BE FREE! BE BACK LATER!''

She was _so_ going to accept.

* * *

Herpo the Foul – known as Alexio to the people that mattered to him, kicked up his legs over Draco Malfoy's petrified form he used as a leg rest. He wrote a letter. But he wasn't satisfied with how it sounded so he scrapped it. As artists went, Alexio was among those that valued perfectionism too much for it to be healthy.

Piles of paper accumulated.

''I'm going to write the BEST ransom letter for those rich English folk.''

Day turned to night and an unmistakable chill overcame him.

''Ah, my dear friend. How do you do?''

Silence. Alexio went on. ''Whenever you come I feel glacial ice enter my bones and burrow deep.''

'' _He's talking to nothing again.''_ The basilisks laughed at Alexio.

''O Death! My beautiful observer, I have cheated you and for that won your eternal fascination.''

'' _I don't see death.''_

'' _No one sees death.''_

'' _He says death sees him.''_

Alexio grinned, letters forgotten. ''How does it feel to know that I am the only immortal – the only human you will never touch? Does it irk you? Do you want to take me this instance, but know that you cannot?''

The chill left.

''O Death! Farewell!''

'' _This one's insane.''_

'' _You're just now realising that?''_

'' _I didn't want to say anything and be rude.''_

* * *

When Abraxas emerged from the Chamber of Secrets he spotted Albus Dumbledore leisurely strolling through the castle corridors. He had his hands hidden away behind his back.

A scream sounded directly in his head. It was the horcrux's.

Abraxas blinked and almost landed on his arse if not for the cane keeping him upright. Albus hurried to help him, touching him with a blackened, cursed hand. _Well_.

He remembered the diadem saying that he'd seen something terrible enough to quit trying to kill Abraxas.

The ring on Dumbledore's hand.

That answered that.

Abraxas thanked Dumbledore for his help, pulling down his glamour just as he pulled up his occlumency shields.

A voice, the horcrux from his pocket, whispered directly into his head: ''Abbie, dear, dear Abbie! In Albania I saw gruesome things, sampled atrocious poisons, modified disgusting diseases – I can undo whatever I have done unto you...''

Dumbledore called him dear boy and Abraxas, yet again, told off the old wizard not to call him that. Slughorn only called Slytherins that. The man was being unnecessarily nice. It was eerie and false. This was what happened when Gryffindors attempted to be subtle.

It was only when Abraxas reached his room and fell on the bed to relax that he allowed himself to wonder what it was that could buy him his health back.

''I want you to kill Dumbledore for me.''

Abraxas was a fool to think it could be something easy. ''How?'' he asked.

The horcrux buzzed in contentment in his pocket and warmed him over with love and affection that he had missed terribly.


	18. September's Suspicions

Hermione would go up to her room, holding Krum letters with shields up in her mind that Montgomery chalked up as her hiding romantic sentences that were probably erotic in nature and none of his business. Zorka would wink at Hermione and make the witch flustered by telling her all about protection and spells that every witch ought to know. Montgomery would join in the conversation to add a male point of view and say some oddly specific things that even though Krum was more better off than her she shouldn't go along with his pureblood values if she at any time felt unsafe. It was rather sweet, but somehow Hermione wanted to know if there was something truthful in the things he'd said, considering how he'd said them so _sagely_.

Montgomery, also, taught her many privacy charms. Hermione wondered if she could use privacy charms to encrypt some of her research material, though what she said was: ''Sir, is there a way to … make … um… my … uh,'' she blushed and stammered and had it always been so _easy_ to lie?

''Your letters?'' Montgomery's brows were furrowed and then when he caught on wrong they rose. ''Well, Hermione, firstly, I don't read teenage girls' mail.'' He looked haunted as he said that. ''I'd only tried once as a teenager.'' If Hermione could see in her mentor's mind she would have seen Walburga Black flashing angrily, like a police siren or a very famous siren from a movie that hadn't come out yet in which the star actress wore a yellow tracksuit.

The point was that Montgomery didn't read other people's mail and that, of course, he would help her make sure no one else would, too. She gave him an actual Krum letter to practise on. After a few tries Hermione mastered the technique, it really was easy.

''Thank, sir.'' Hermione smiled, but she looked tired. She yawned.

It was noticeable: ''Hermione, are you sleeping well?''

''Oh, not really.'' She admitted. When not researching for the Order she researched with Montgomery about a wide variety of topics.

''I'd offer some dreamless sleep – Zorka uses it, but it's addictive.'' Montgomery sneered, loathing anyone that had problems with addiction. He saw that as a failure in character. Circumstances that led to such problems discarded.

''No, thank you.'' Hermione yawned. She rubbed her eyes. Her nights she spent gathering and analysing all of the material she was given by the Order on Voldemort. He was a svelte, skinny man, that Voldemort. Sometimes Hermione wondered how all of the magic he had could fit in him. Photographs of the man had her feel odd. Putting aside all of the terrible, criminal things he'd done –– Voldemort was _kind of_ cute. Mostly because literally in NO moving photograph he looked serious. They'd all start like that, then when he thought the photograph was over (it never was) he'd make a grimace of some kind or scrunch his face up in confusion whilst mouthing 'wot?' or 'Ab?'. Hermione was taught by Draco that when having your photograph taken by a magical camera you had to hold position for TEN SECONDS _after_ the flash.

It was obvious the man grew up muggle. She wrote down his weaknesses and looked at newspaper article clippings of the War. His trademark was fiendfyre. At that Hermione stopped. Huh. She read on and saw that Diagon Alley was up in burning cinders. It read: 300 dead.

War decimated the population with simple efforts.

Richard Skeeter went after Voldemort like a shark. He was Dumbledore's man. He wrote a smear article about the Dark Lord, calling him an instigator. An arriviste that had nothing good in mind for pureblood witches and wizards. A sentence caught Hermione off guard and she had to wonder how something so odd could be printed in 1978.

_The Dark Lord will turn your daughters and wives off of their duty. War is not a woman's occupation. Dark Arts promote Unladylike Behaviour. Down with the Dark Lord!_

A rebuttal came, Hermione read it – it was published in Witch Weekly of all places:

_War is nobody's occupation! I welcome any and all, witch or wizard, who wish to fight for the side that is right._

In the Prophet a sketch of Voldemort came up, it was an unflattering caricature.

In Witch Weekly (owned by Redmond Lestrange (Knight of Walpurgis)) there were a lot of political articles written by witches. Most took up writing pro Voldemort propaganda more willingly than writing which charms a lady needed to know to catch a husband. Hermione was confused by this turn of events. Some of these prominent names she found wrote for the Prophet nowadays. Some though still remained writing womanly columns. Witch Weekly was not owned by the Lestrange family anymore.

She read interviews with Voldemort and found him disgusting. His ideas of blood purity repulsed her, but there was something familiar in the way he stood. Hermione couldn't quite put her finger on it. His eyes were an intense black. All of the papers were black and white back then.

The first in-colour print of any magazine or newspaper for magical Britain was made in 1982 when the Malfoys funded papers to write appeasing material about them. They were trying to save face. Lucius, Hermione had met him and knew him shallowly, pleaded Imperius. Narcissa was so young! Wow! Hermione thought she was practically a different woman in the photograph. Baby Draco was in her arms to show off motherly affection and weakness. Abraxas Malfoy was absent.

Hermione didn't know how to feel about Abraxas Malfoy after she'd researched Voldemort and his name kept coming up. She knew that Abraxas was involved in a right-winged, conservative faction against Nobby Leach, but he wasn't a marked Death Eater. Surely that counted for something?

Abraxas was always kind to Hermione. Half of the books in Hermione's bag were gifts from the elderly man. One time while studying with Montgomery he was explaining to her the known laws of human transfiguration when infused by the moon's properties cultivated in a dark potion named after some sorceress from Monaco when Hermione cut him off by saying: ''You mean Lola de la Lune?''

Montgomery looked at her and asked her where she'd read about this piece of magic. He seemed put off that something he obviously wanted to teach her Hermione already knew. When Hermione said that Abraxas Malfoy had lent her this very rare tome to read Montgomery squinted his eyes at her and whispered things in parseltongue. _''Not only do I have to compete with Gilderoy Lockhart for my pupil's attention and respect, but I have to do so with my ex as well?!_

Hermione thought that her mentor, what with him being a parselmouth, would know something about Voldemort that might help with her research (without mentioning said research, obviously): ''Sir, do you know anything about Voldemort?''

Her mentor's face was weird. It scrunched up and Hermione swore she saw a similar expression somewhere other than on her mentor's face. ''Voldemort, Hermione?'' his accent spiked into truly American territory. He drew out his words and Hermione, not knowing Americans personally, didn't think too much about the accent that came and went as it wished. He smiled. ''Why would I, an **_American_** , know about some small-bit wizard from an island?''

''Firstly,'' Ever the advocate that knowledge should not be limited and that one's ignorance could never be excused, only pardoned if the ignorant party wished to learn more, Hermione said: ''that's pretty stupid of you, sir. Not to mention it is very inconsiderate. Voldemort is Britain's biggest terrorist from the past century, possibly longer!''

So, Voldemort sat there and was regaled about how important he was to British history. He was terrified of how much Hermione knew about him. The more she spoke and brought up facts had him questioning just why she would ever need to know this. Montgomery didn't understand Hermione and that was fine by him. His need to constantly micro manage people underneath him had left him. No more idiot Death Eaters, no more Abraxas, no more Antoinette putting him in charge of party management when things got too heated for her to participate with her planner team that she swore all wanted to stab her in the back. Lord Voldemort was THE flower arrangement expert, if anyone wondered.

Anyhow, Hermione teaching Voldemort about how much shite he'd done in Britain was a strange experience. Even stranger, however, was when he asked her if she wanted to continue their occlumency practise. Hermione had said no. His knowledge starving pupil! Saying no! To learning magic! Important and rare magic!

But okay, Voldemort, too, was once a sexually active individual with secrets –he understood Hermione's reluctance as her not wanting him to stumble upon sensitive, passion-fuelled memories with one Viktor Krum. But he was a professional! Sex had never interested him! He'd only given in because of peer pressure and because it was a good manipulation tactic.

Hermione left hurriedly to her room and locked herself there.

Crookshanks meowed as Hermione looked at evidence and information for too long to be healthy. She looked and she catalogued and she learned and she wrote all of this down in one space. Her job wasn't to track down Voldemort, but to make correlation with his written voice. Dumbledore thought that the man was incapable of hiding his ego and would therefore be published abroad, under aliases.

Hermione's attention to detail and her connections with scholars may help her in accessing papers that a layman may not even know to check.

''Tom Riddle adores being listened to. He cherishes being lauded and respected academically.'' Dumbledore phrased in a condescending manner. It came with age, that sort of behaviour, not necessarily hate. Though, Snape, given his insight into that side, said that there _was_ hatred between the two wizards.

''Ask your mentor.'' Harry kept on suggesting. Hermione did and found herself not at all disappointed honestly. What else could one expect from _an American_? Knowledge? Of non-American matters? Hermione thought not!

Hermione, reaching the end of her wits and patience with her life, had both missed her birthday (the presents remained unopened in a corner of her room) but she'd also declined an actual invitation from Viktor to see him in Croatia (they were having a game against the national team). Lord Voldemort consumed Hermione's life and she – she really wanted to punch the dainty fuck in his pretty face is what she wanted.

A photograph from before the war – Hermione hadn't much pre-War material – depicted two men, both dark and confident. Underneath the photograph were names. Nobby Leach, Minister for Magic, and Tom Marvolo Riddle, Antique Appraiser.

Hermione read about what happened to Nobby Leach. She didn't answer Abraxas' letters after reading about Leach's murder. She couldn't bring herself to. Narcissa wrote her to tell her about how the Draco search party was being funded and that she hoped they would find her son soon. Hermione wrote the startled mother to pacify her. Narcissa had always been kind to her and hadn't done something so, so terrible to one of her kind like Mr. Abraxas had.

Tom Marvolo Riddle – I am Lord Voldemort was there when Leach was killed. Moody told her that he'd orchestrated the entire thing. Dumbledore had shaken his head. Everyone else was too young to know what had happened. Sirius just sneered it was purebloods being purebloods. Walburga Black's portrait was covered with cloth, like she was some chicken to trick.

Her breathing constricted when she saw that the Minister for Magic looked happily to the man next to him. The man culpable for Leach's death, thought Hermione. This was all politics, thought Hermione uneasily. Leach had died because he'd pissed off the wrong people. Voldemort dealt people's deaths out nonchalantly. At least that was the impression Hermione was gleaming from the Order and her research.

She decided to write Abraxas. Not to return her unopened present, really, but to ask him about Voldemort. They were lovers. ''I can't believe I'm friends with a guy who's dated to be the biggest pureblood supremacist… who also happens to be bosom buddies with Lord Voldemort.''

Crookshanks meowed in accord. Hermione's life was very weird.

Now, Hermione thought, how to start that letter? What lie to use as explanation?

Dear Abraxas,  
I've recently begun a history project of going through newspaper articles that detail witch suffrage and I've found a startling amount of Lord Voldemort quotes. Apparently he passed for a feminist, electing to indiscriminately mark witches and wizards.

Hermione scrapped that idea. It hadn't the right panache. The right flare. The right tone.

Dear Abraxas,

Hermione felt indignation for her muggleborn brothers and sisters in magic and discrimination. She would never forget the historic witches and wizards that got her to the place of acceptance she was in now. Nobby Leach was the _first_ and **_only_** muggleborn to gain the title and position of Minister for Magic. All to be killed by a man that acted as her grandfather and mentor. And for what? Prejudice.

Dear Abraxas,

He was dear to her, yes, but he was also … also … Hermione's hands shook and she withdrew them from the paper, dropping her quill. Crookshanks jumped in her lap and purred to calm her, meowing in-between. She pat her cat and didn't write the letter.

Her gaze fell on a photograph atop her newest pile to go through.

Bellatrix Lestrange looked at Hermione form the photograph caught by a journalist that risked his life to go and capture scenes from war. Bellatrix was smiling proudly, showing off her mark to the camera. Lord Voldemort was in the background of that photograph, Hermione watched as he moved to duel against Dumbledore. Right before assuming position, the man threw his wand in the air and _twirled it._ Hermione grabbed hold of the photograph and pushed it inches to her face.

* * *

It was three days after coming back from Munich that Montgomery decided to help Hermione hone her duelling skills. He merrily led her to outskirts of civilisation, atop a hill called Vrmac, which overlooked Tivat. They took out their wands and Hermione thought of firing instantly, but was told first to bow. Her mentor was very adamant about that.

''Proper duelling etiquette is important, Hermione! Duelling is a wonderful invention.'' There was awe in his voice as he spoke. Hermione yawned because it was too early for this nonsense.

So, with Zorka there as referee and on duty healer, Hermione bowed to her mentor.

Then he fired a cutting hex at her which she evaded by jumping out of the way. They were duelling back where the trees were. Zorka had managed to fix them well enough. Hermione stepped back a few steps and tapped her vine wood wand against one tree, hoping it didn't remember her. Some trees were sentient enough to not want to obey magic being willed on them. These trees were good for wand wood. This tree was not pissed off at Hermione for setting fire to them that one time and allowed her to guide its roots towards Montgomery.

He moved forward, coming right into her silent trap. Neither shouted spells. Hermione tried to cast non-verbally completely, but sometimes she needed to enunciate her intentions.

Magic was intent. Magic was not some entity that Hermione needed to struggle against and beg for help. SHE was magic. This was something that she needed to remember.

A blue light zigzagged off of two rocks and jumped straight at Hermione. She pulled up a protego shield. The roots retracted because Hermione's focus was split.

''What was the spell?'' Montgomery asked. Was he testing her knowledge of spell recognition, also? How droll. Hermione called out stupefy and sent an equally blue light at him. He deflected it with his wand casually.

Hermione pivoted on her heel, disapparating from position just as a spell cascaded towards her. Montgomery waited until she appeared, angling his movements to expect a rear attack. She surprised him by flinging a hex from above him. It was a petrifying spell. His foot turned to stone and Montgomery muttered the counter spell fluidly. Once free, he took her lead and disapparated.

Realising that having the upper ground was dangerous when dealing with someone who could cut down her tree easily, Hermione levitated herself down gently, muttering wingardium leviosa. Her feet touched the ground and roots jumped to coil around her ankles, having her drop onto her stomach. ''Oof.'' Hermione said and scrambled to cut the roots up with slicing spells.

Another spell surged at Hermione and she remembered herself when it hit her shoulder. A scream of anger tore from her when she realised that she'd not pulled up a new shield. Apparition tended to nullify the strength of previously cast magic. Hermione glared in the direction of the spells, but there was no sight of the source.

''When you can't see your opponent, you need to lose them.'' Her mentor taught her duelling for cowards. Hermione didn't like that. She liked surviving, but she also liked to win. Running didn't feel like winning.

''I'll bloody well lose you!'' Hermione channeled her magic into her wand and summoned fiendfyre. Annoyance coursed through her.

''NO! THIS IS CRNA GORA! NOT IZGORELA GORA! NO!'' Zorka’s anti-arsonist-self shouted and conjured water to put out Hermione's beginner spark. Because Hermione wasn't an experienced fiendfyre user the aguamenti snuffed it. Crna Gora's black forests lived to see another day.

It was the snickering nearby that alerted Hermione where to strike. The tree roots unwound because his guard was down, but Hermione didn't make a single move to make him believe their duel was to continue. Zorka came to Hermione and pulled her up. Hermione flashed a smile to the Montenegrin witch, apologizing for her carelessness.

Montgomery slid out of his hiding spot, ready to critique Hermione what she should focus on – when Hermione moved her wand in quick, precise movements. ''Impedimenta!''

He dodged that one, but barely – and the dodging caused him to lose his footing. Zorka let out a yelp as she jumped back from the ongoing duellers.

Her mentor regarded her with keenness from the ground. ''That was almost good.''

Hermione didn't bolster at the praise because she wanted to win. She'd noticed a sense of wariness that came with his duelling. He was much better than he allowed her to see, and Hermione wanted in on that.

Zorka, remembering her role as a healer: ''Need help?''

''Nah.'' Montgomery said as he pushed himself to his feet, dusting off his robe. That keen look of calculation didn't leave from his crimson eyes. Hermione felt watched, naked like game in front of hunters. It was wholly different than how her mentor usually looked at her like a student he was fond of.

Now they regarded each other like equals in a duel. The air shifted to accommodate the change. Zorka kept a more vigil eye, realising that actual injury might occur now. Nothing too serious. Before Montgomery cast he threw his wand casually in the air, it _twirled_ , and fell promptly in his hand like it was made for it. He was done playing. Good. Hermione attacked first: ''Relashio!''

* * *

''It's a trick, Hermione. Loads of people twirl their wands. So many people stim with their wands. It's a thing. Get over yourself.'' But now she couldn't get it out of her head, no matter how silly Hermione felt. That her mentor twirled his wand right before duelling like Voldemort did in that photograph. Crookshanks tilted his head curiously and she rested her head on her purring cat. The purring helped. She closed her eyes and fell asleep. That was it, she was just sleep-deprived.

* * *

The Dark Mark was faint and almost erased in the following period: 1981-1991.

It was in late 1991 that the Dark Mark began to gradually strengthen in saturation. Strengthen just as Lord Voldemort grew stronger wherever he was. His Death Eaters hoped he was somewhere better than where they were.

Azkaban was cold. Undeniably so. The chill burrowed deep and nestled like a cuckoo bird in its empty nest. Cries of agony littered the air. Crisp. Clear. There were few coherent people left in Azkaban in 1998.

Dementors patrolled and any prisoner that lingered close to the bars was snatched up by an unforgiving hand, pulled close, and fed upon. It was routine. The prisoners existed to be used as Dementor fodder so free people didn't have to worry about that fate.

Rodolphus Lestrange babbled and cried. He had kept going until 1996 when his mind gave in to the pain. The Dementors ignored him because he didn't have any memories left that they’d not feasted, he didn't remember anything that could – even for a fleeting moment – amuse the Dementors.

The Dark Mark had been clear since 1994. But it wasn’t solid, nor was it as active as it’d been when their lord was at full power. The Deaths Eaters talked amongst each other in hushed tones, respecting their lord, and waiting, biding their time for the rescue that was _sure_ to come. They'd sworn to serve him with all of their might and all of their money. Servitude went hand in hand. A lord served his people, helped them, guided them, and saved them!

It was 1998 and Azkaban continued being cold. It was 1998 and no Dark Mark could contact their Lord. It was 1998 and the only prisoner who could be called mentally-present was:

Bellatrix Lestrange regarded her mark with despondency. She chipped it with a long, overgrown nail. It was the same colour as it was before her imprisonment. A Black mind was powerful. A Black mind could withstand any manner of mental attack. Azkaban was nothing. NOTHING!

She eased slowly out of her corner and moved closer to the bars. Her occlumency kept her mind from the Dementors. Kept her emotions from them and they regarded her as a husk like all the other drained prisoners. But she felt with intensity no one but a scorned woman could understand.

Because Bellatrix Lestrange felt something that no Death Eater had felt, or wanted to acknowledge feeling: their Lord's presence on British soil. His power healthy and great as it had been before the Potter incident. A spark of hope blossomed that this was the rescue mission; that he would come for his most loyal. To raid Azkaban for someone of his calibre wasn't hard. Not when Dementors liked him. Not when he had Dementors back him in the War…Not when – not when –not when it was their Lord's duty to serve his followers just as it was their duty to serve him!

In 1992 the mark froze in its clearness. Cheers from Death Eaters alerted the Dementors that there were emotions to feast upon. Bellatrix shouted at her cousin: ''The Dark Lord is back, Sirius! The Dark Lord will return for us! And you – you will suffer! Wither here until your mind rots to mush, until you realise that the side you chose was wrong.''

Sirius Black – and Bellatrix hated him for being a Black when she was a Lestrange – stared at her with a dim expression, set in stone and emotionless. She called him a cur, called him weak. Bellatrix gripped the bars and leaned almost out, but she couldn't slip past the bars no matter how little she ate in this prison. Sirius stared ahead. He stared _through_ her and Bellatrix worried. How could a Black succumb to such weakness so easily? Dementors hurt her, but she kept out of their way. Some Dementors remembered her from the War, remembered her as her lord's second in command.

It was her lord that taught her Dementors could be reasoned with. Could be bartered with.

Bellatrix didn't see Dementors as beasts. She saw them as fairies because that was what they were. All fairies spoke parseltongue and her lord spoke parseltongue with them. Bellatrix wished that her family had mixed with fairies and true mages. A witch was just trying and failing to emulate a fairy’s magic. All knew this.

Toujours Pur. How limiting that was upon retrospect.

Bellatrix remembered when a human guard (a rarity) came clambering about in 1993. He carried a newspaper with him. Sirius glanced at it and recognition exploded.

He moved from his corner and Bellatrix jeered at him: ''Little blood traitor, have you anything to say to me?'' Sirius still stared through her, electing to ignore her. Only a Black knew that the biggest insult a Black could withstand was to be ignored. Bellatrix tried to channel her Lestrangeness. But she never married that family so she could be in it. She married in the Lestrange family so she could bring back honour to the Black name after Andromeda had disgraced it. They all had roles to play.

''PETER PETTIGREW!'' Sirius shouted, raw and animalistic. The guard jumped out of his skin like a cat jumped in the air. Bellatrix was too far gone to remember who Pettigrew was, but she wasn't that far gone to realise that when the guard fled the floor of Death Eaters that her cousin turned into a dog.

Her eyes widened in shock. Bellatrix watched as the black dog – what an apt form – whined and whimpered and growled whilst trying to slip past the bars. Bellatrix watched, transfixed and in disbelief as Sirius succeeded without anyone's help.

For a moment their eyes met. His canine and Black enough to set Bellatrix's heart ablaze that he might recognize her as kin. That he might turn away from his blood traitor-ness now that they'd spent twelve years in Azkaban together, with Dementors and the cold and ice and scat.

They kept each other's gaze. The dog barked something at her and because Bella was a legilimens she read his mind: _''Sit tight, Bella, for when your lord decides to save you.''_

Bellatrix watched Sirius escape Azkaban. Her emotions kept tightly under wraps. Her emotions kept far, far away from Dementors that feasted upon them hungrily. Ever hungry. Bellatrix could understand that. She was always hungry, too.

Rodolphus rubbed against her then and whispered that their lord would save them. ''He's back, Bella.'' Their Marks were all powerful and they all waited.

By 1998 there was no one in Azkaban, on Bellatrix's floor, that was mentally-there besides herself. In 1998 their lord returned and ignored them all. Bellatrix realised an important thing.

She looked at the empty cell across from her where Sirius used to be before escaping. There would be no help from her family. No connection would be pulled to have her freed. She looked at the Dark Mark and bit her tongue hard, not daring to voice her traitorous thoughts. Yet she thought them: _''There would be no help from Lord Voldemort. He had discarded us all.''_

It was 1998 and Bellatrix Lestrange decided she would own Azkaban.

Ice burrowed in her bones and they hurt when she walked. Ice burrowed in her mind and it hurt to think. Dementors leeched off of her friends and watched her, waiting delectably for when some of her emotions would slip. Then she would be theirs. They saw her as a challenge. As an anomaly to human kind.

Bellatrix pulled Rodolphus towards her. She made sure he faced the bars with his back so when she straddled him it was Bellatrix that watched the Dementors. One of them already came to see what the rustling meant. Rodolphus couldn't think, but that didn't mean his body couldn't force him to feel.

It was feelings that Dementors relished in.

Bellatrix didn't feel anything when she kissed Rodolphus, _but **he** did._

Her eyes glued to the fairies. All of them liked to be entertained. Dementors and pixies and elves and brownies. Bella's fingers mussed Rodolphus' hair and he made a sound and he thought and he felt and Bellatrix continued seducing her husband.

There was hissing in front of her as more Dementors congregated. It'd been months since any of them felt anything from this floor, anything worthwhile feeding upon. Bellatrix would barter. Bellatrix would conquer. She broke the kiss to speak, but her deft fingers lowered to a place where Rodolphus craved touch.

''I can do this for you.'' Bellatrix kept her voice emotionless. Her mind was locked up. The rage inside thundered. The wrath bloomed. Self-preservation howled like a werewolf did. ''I can make them feel so you can eat.''

One of the Dementors pushed its claw through the bars and grabbed hold of Rodolphus, tilted his head back so the Dementor could eat the emotions easier, and Bellatrix didn't stop because she wanted this. She wanted their attention and she wanted their partnership.

Because it’d been done before. Because her absentee lord had done it.

* * *

It was 1970, during a not so peaceful demonstration that Lord Voldemort resurfaced after a two year leave. Bellatrix was nineteen and she’d not met him yet. She was with her family, watching as her father tried to placate unrest. Mudbloods screamed at him. Back then he was acting as Minister's right hand. Squibs rallied with them all, raising up signs with demands. That was a factor none of the purebloods had expected, honestly. _Squibs_! Going up against purebloods! The nerve! Bellatrix's mother grabbed hold of her hand and kept her away from filth. The Ministry, then run almost wholly by influential purebloods, became deterred. The officials and their families tried to flee but were cornered by the majority.

That was what happened to oligarchies. The majority would grow fed up and retaliate. Their only representative, for their rights had been killed by a pureblood that didn't face any legal repercussion. Bellatrix once asked Walburga where Abraxas Malfoy was, as his absence had been felt in the higher circles of the elite. She'd replied curtly: ''He's gone travelling, Bellatrix.'' As if it were a crime and a shameful place wherever he'd gone. Though, curiosity did continue to burn in the back of her mind.

Now her aunt was nowhere to be found. _Her_ absence garnered some peace in the Black household. Sirius and Regulus were calmer by far. She'd actually seen her uncle Orion laughing at something her father had said. Though her disappearance did make her think. Narcissa had quickly told her to stop asking for trouble and to just enjoy their aunt's leave. The little Black was right, as usual. She had a good head on her shoulders, Bella didn't worry for a moment about Narcisaa.

It was a pureblood auror, Selwyn Something, who shot first and escalated the demonstration into battle. He'd panicked. Bellatrix would never panic in times of high stress. A lady didn't panic. A lady took up her wand and, upon being shot at, _deflected_. Adrenaline coursed through her like water in a rapid.

More aurors spilled into Diagon Alley. That was where the War commenced. Not with a demonstration gone wrong, but the cavalry that arrived to fight for pureblood kind.

It was mid-September. Bellatrix breathed in and then out, surprised to see her breath. Her eyes widened and she skidded behind a building to take cover from spell-fire. Narcissa was at Hogwarts and safe. Her family had almost all disapparated, but she remained. Bellatrix didn't know what came over her not to run. Something about being flung at danger felt right in an inexplicable way.

The purebloods that remained, surrounded protectively by aurors, cast with utmost prejudice. The protestors chanted their mantras for equal rights. How cute. Bella thought. They wanted to be people. Ha. Bellatrix craned her neck upwards by sheer coincidence and came face to face with a billowing shadow of grief, incarnate. It was one of her worst moments, but Bellatrix remembered dropping her wand and strangling a cry down her throat.

The Dementor passed by her as if not noticing her. It entered Diagon Alley. And immediately. Bellatrix didn't even exaggerate. Immediately all spell fire stopped. Wizards and witches had never before seen a Dementor in Diagon Alley. Neither had Bellatrix, for that matter, but she tried not to let shock paralyse her too long. Slowly her fingers flexed and the wand flew up in her hand. She gripped it with steel instead of flesh. Easing out of the alcove between buildings Bellatrix watched in fascination as more Dementors flooded Diagon Alley. Emerging from alcoves and alleyways and appearing from above, murking up the sky in an array of greys.

Screams mixed with hissing. Bellatrix was entranced. She stood, enraptured, as she saw these spectres moving, as if propelled by constant wind. They looked absolutely horrifying. Yet her eyes glued to them. How had the purebloods known to flee? Bellatrix only hadn't because her father had made her mother top priority. Yet now Bellatrix couldn't see a single one of the Twenty-Eight.

A hand clasped on her shoulder tightly and Bellatrix let out a startled scream, thinking it was a Dementor come to kiss her. She would not get over her fear of them until a while later. Instead of a soul sucking Dementor, Bellatrix saw someone much more frightening: Walburga Black. A mongoose made of light stood on her shoulder.

''WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE, BELLATRIX?''

''I'm… Well… Aunt Walburga … that is to say…'' Walburga Black could render anyone a fumbling, bumbling mess. The elder scowled. She pointed her wand at Bellatrix and told her to leave. Bellatrix refused to, instead electing to ask questions. ''What's happening? Did you do this? Aunt Walburga, this is brilliant. How did you-''

A man, in that moment, appeared behind Walburga. Bellatrix sized him up with her eyes instantly. He wore a hastily put together robe. Was that Uncle Orion's robe? It had to be. Bellatrix remembered it. It had that magically created cut on the collar no tailor could finite. Her aunt's magic tended to linger. Their fights were legendary and Bellatrix remembered having both Sirius and Regulus in her room more than she had ever had Narcissa or Andromeda.

''Your audience awaits.'' Walburga Black plastered a fake smile. She gestured the road straight into madness. The man dragged himself. His eyes were red. Bellatrix, for a moment, thought that her aunt had summoned a vampire, or some inferi. But when he looked at her, deep, deep in those orbs lay life, practically snuffed out. ''For Merlin's sake,'' Walburga's voice cut through the air, criticising, ''don't be so glum. Put some effort in your stance. No one will listen to you like this. Where's that haughty upstart, _Riddle_?''

At the mention of the name, the man seemed to freeze mid step. He whirled around, then, faster than Bellatrix expected him. He pulled out a long, white wand from his pocket and aimed it at Walburga's throat. ''I am Lord Voldemort, Lady Black. Remember this.''

''My apologies.'' Walburga touched the man's wand arm and eased it off of her. Bellatrix looked on like a spectator, accidental. Her aunt had never apologised, _ever_.

When Lord Voldemort stepped into Diagon Alley, every single Dementor went to his side. They aligned themselves as his army and his pawns. Bellatrix watched. Walburga joined her. The mongoose was there as a safety net. She did not trust this man who could speak with the Dementors so freely as if they were kin, to not tell them to attack her. This did not surprise Bellatrix, because her aunt had made many enemies.

Walburga looked at Bellatrix, saw her fascinated and giddy for battle, and then promptly told her: ''If you die, your father will have to engage Narcissa to Lestrange.'' It was a way to sway her from battle, to sway her back into the folds of control and propriety expected of a pureblood debutante.

''Guess I won't die, then.'' Bellatrix said, without missing a beat, and surged into the fray. She brandished her wand and when a wizard sent a hex her way, she deflected it, firing a nastier one back. This filled her with elation. It caused her joy. It made her have meaning.

Lord Voldemort stood among the Dementors calmly. He felt nothing from being near Dementors. No fear. No trepidation. It inspired hundreds. Back when there were many of magical stock to choose from. The survivors had put out their memories in pensieves for their families to watch and it had spread from then.

Many were Kissed. Bellatrix couldn't look away from what a beautiful spectre and presence a Dementor became. But she had to when Head Auror Alastor Moody fired a barrage of spells their way. He had all his limbs intact, then. A ferocious wizard. Bellatrix wondered if the aurors were on their side or on the side of the filth.

War, in its beginning, was confusing. Later, only, would the sides crystalize.

The Dementors indiscriminately attacked. Bellatrix was grateful her family had fled.

Lord Voldemort, what a mysterious figure! He glided, everyone, magic or no, parting to give him a path. Bellatrix's heart beat at the power exuding off of him in waves of energy and intensity. His might strangled any opposition into submission. Bellatrix thought wickedly, in awe, that not even her Aunt Walburga could accomplish such a task so easily.

Who was Lord Voldemort? Riddle, as his Aunt had called him. He wasn't Sacred Twenty-Eight?

''Anyone that wishes to oppose me may stay and die.'' Lord Voldemort spoke in a matter of fact tone. It was flat and tired. Bellatrix balled her hands into fists and bit her lip raw from anticipation. ''To those of you that wish to live, please, leave.''

Cowards disapparated. Those that stayed would later be attributed to being the first members of the opposition. Bellatrix didn't disapparate. Those that stayed would later be attributed to being right hand women.

Bellatrix Black stayed, inching towards Lord Voldemort. Her heart beat in a rhythm that hurt her ribcage, but she disallowed it to deter her.

In flames, like a phoenix, Dumbledore appeared.

Lord Voldemort looked at him with a mixture of feelings Bellatrix was too ignorant to understand. She had no inkling of their history.

Wands crossed. Lights flared and ricocheted off of materials and transcendental rays of light, mixed with magic. Dementors descended on the enemy, now managed and guided by Lord Voldemort's hissing. _Parseltongue_ , Bellatrix was reminded of being fifteen and wondering why a mudblood Minister had decided to make parseltongue legal. Bellatrix remembered trying to figure out why parseltongue had ever been illegal in Britain. But now, watching as Lord Voldemort urged Dementors to do his bidding, it came as a sledgehammer of clarity to her walls of ignorance.

One of the Dementors accidentally tried to kiss her, but she remembered hissing and seeing her lord (not yet, not yet, but soon, soon) pull her away to safety. Bellatrix wanted to dedicate her entire life to this. To fight. To lead a revolution! To aid in any way a soldier could, not as some _socialite_ like Narcissa longed to be. Or a blood-traitor like Andromeda was. She had found her calling.

Dumbledore's patronus was stark and vivid. It was a giant bird, surprisingly not a phoenix, but not any bird that Bellatrix could recognize off the top of her head. The bird patronus that attacked the Dementors and scurried most of them away. In a fit of rage, Lord Voldemort jumped into the maelstrom of magic. His wand pointed upward as if giving up, but from it shot a steady turret of fire. Fiendfyre. Bellatrix let out a gasp. She shielded him as best as she could and this felt right, this felt so, _so_ right.

A monstrosity emerged from Lord Voldemort's wand. It was long and large and again, Bellatrix was aware of her young age and ignorance because, even thought she was a Slytherin, she had never caught sight of such a snake. A combination of sheer will, parseltongue, and power transformed the battle into massacre.

Dumbledore cast a too powerful shield. Those caught underneath it survived. Those too far away were either picked apart by Dementors first, and then charred, or directly charred into ash and death.

Fiendfyre devoured the patronus as if it was nothing. Wills combated and passion won over watered-down love that day. When everyone underneath Dumbledore's shield disapparated, including the headmaster, Lord Voldemort allowed exhaustion to catch up to him as he fell onto the ground unceremoniously. The fiendfyre flickered off. She heard Voldemort speak in a soft tone a name of the bird: ''Your Turul… how… positively juvenile to cling to him still, Albus Dumbledore… '' It was spoken in delirium, between pants. Bellatrix kneeled next to him. Scattered Dementors tried to find their own way out of Diagon Alley's maze. Ash littered their paths. The smell of burning lingered still in the air. Bellatrix was just about to disapparate them both when she heard a voice she hadn't heard in two years.

''You can't be serious!''

''No,'' Bellatrix said, turning to face the wizard. ''I'm Bellatrix, Lord Malfoy. Cousin Sirius is at home.''

There was no room for humour. This much was evident as Lord Malfoy surged through ash, wearing a simple aquamarine robe. Truly his wife had dressed him today. Antoinette Malfoy had exquisite taste. He pushed Bellatrix out of the way and gathered the mysterious Lord in his arms, hoisting him up with both magic and his body. Lord Voldemort leaned into the touch, blinking.

''You're back.''

''I am.''

Bellatrix noted that they knew each other.

''Tom, this was… I've never seen you capable of such…This was amazing!'' Abraxas lauded him, shuddering when a Dementor moved closer to check on Voldemort. Bellatrix, now noticing that Voldemort was incapable of protecting them from Dementor's need for amusement, swished her wand to cast a patronus.

''Don't.'' Lord Voldemort ordered and she cut herself off. Lord Malfoy went to say something, but Lord Voldemort spoke above him, trying to ignore the Malfoy's presence. Bellatrix listened.

''If you want to earn a Dementor's respect, you mustn't flaunt the fact that you can best it.'' It'd been such an odd thing to hear from such a mysterious man, but Bellatrix remembered those words; she had them seared into her mind for whenever she dealt with Dementors. ''They like to feel like they're in charge.''

''So,'' Bellatrix cracked a smile amidst the aftermath, ''like pureblood lords, then?''

Her not-yet-lord had laughed. Bellatrix's insides turned.

Lord Voldemort looked at Abraxas Malfoy and said: ''Dementors are not nearly as entitled.''

* * *

Bellatrix was a Black. She kept repeating this mantra to her. _Mind Magic is Black Magic._

The Dementor retracted and another came, appraising Bellatrix. It was cold. So cold. Bellatrix missed warmth. Her stomach growled. She missed food. Rodolphus cried. Bellatrix missed freedom.

It was in 1998 that Bellatrix Black realised the only one capable of freeing her would be herself.

The fairies deliberated among one another. Bellatrix observed.

One looked at her and Bellatrix didn't know whether her deal had been accepted. They waited and she remembered that she hadn't said what she wanted in return.

''I want…'' Bella whispered, for a moment, a split second, allowing herself to let through some of that anger, ''I want… to be … equals.''

Dementors craved to eat just as much as Bellatrix. Bellatrix could supply them the essence of a human's emotion, and the Dementors could supply her with warming charms. They could supply her with better food. They could see Bellatrix as an equal. It had been done before. Lord Voldemort had done it before. Who was Lord Voldemort but a coward with no upbringing? Bellatrix understood her Aunt Walburga's words now.

The Dementor (the one Bellatrix figured was the leader because all the others ones parted way to let it move) outstretched its claw to Bellatrix.

Bellatrix breathed in, sparks of rage fuelled her, and she took the offered claw.

Warmth enveloped her for the first time in seventeen years.

* * *

Thoros Nott would do anything to ensure his son would grow up safe. That was why, in 1981, when the aurors had seen his Mark, had seen his involvement, and had arrested him Thoros chose to cooperate to the fullest. Abraxas Malfoy was dying. Walburga Black was dying. Redmond Lestrange was dead. After them all it was the name Nott that had weight. Now, having no one to call upon for help, Thoros took matters into his own hands and said names when they asked, told them locations when asked, told them their loved one's fates, when he knew where they'd put the corpses and what they'd done to traitors.

That titbit of betrayal had kept him free.

Now that Lord Voldemort was alive, undoubtedly, it was time to make arrangements. Thoros contemplated coming forth with information, but kept silent because he wanted to live. The aurors would let him live, would make sure his son was kept safe, but Abraxas Malfoy would detest him. A Malfoy poured more fear into a Nott than any Ministry could. Sacred Twenty-Eight remained together in periods of disharmony. They were, at the same time, each other's greatest allies and each other's greatest enemies.

If anyone asked him after the power struggle between the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black and the Malfoy House, Thoros would say that the Black House would win. Surely, a House with such a long name and history ought to win, but it hadn't. It hadn't won. Because the Malfoy name had had something the Black House didn't; a Dark Lord.

A Dark Lord deranged enough to go into war for pureblood kind, when he himself was not one of theirs, decimate the population of traitors both to blood and him, and then because of some spiteful nerve that had been struck over and over and over again by Walburga Black – the Dark Lord had targeted the Blacks. Not overtly, no. He'd happily recruited Regulus Black, who, if Abraxas' sources were correct, had wound up inferi fodder. He'd happily helped Alphard Black hide the fact that he’d made a bastard daughter in Spain, and he’d wound up dead by a Spaniards hand years, upon years after the war. He’d joyfully helped Cygnus Black in his many war profit endeavours, and he’d been killed most brutally. He'd happily helped Orion Black with trying to find his son, who had gone missing suddenly without a word, and he'd died. Narcissa, Andromeda, and Bellatrix had all married into families, thus losing their name. Walburga Black and Sirius Black remained the only Blacks. Until Walburga had died. Thoros wouldn't put aside foul play for her situation. The woman had had many enemies. Sirius Black, the rumours said, was beyond help. He wasn't fit to be a proper leader of a family as illustrious as the Black name once was. **The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black had fallen.**

Only to have the Malfoy Family emerge as the next great House of magical Birtain. Their constant struggle for power had finally been settled. Thoros couldn't believe how lucky he was to have picked Abraxas to befriend all those years ago, and not Orion. To think it was all because Walburga screamed louder than Abraxas.

Lucius was running for Minister, next month would be the vote. It was tied between him and Therese Quimbley, some halfblood woman. Thoros would vote for Lucius, but he already knew the outcome of that battle long before it had even begun. So did anyone with eyes. Lucius, too caught up in his machinations, forgot that he was a Death Eater. And Death Eaters, Thoros glanced at his vivid Mark, weren't allowed to win. Not anymore. It was for the best.

Abraxas scheduled a meeting at the Hog's Head. Thoros disapparated.

He saw Abraxas Malfoy holding a peacock – Flocon de Neige? – and petting it gently. There were large circles under his eyes. Thoros didn't take this as a social visit, then. Easing into a seat opposite of Abraxas, Thoros asked: ''What's gotten you in such a ruffled state?''

''I'm stressed, Thoros. Hogwarts is more demanding than I'd anticipated.'' The peacock cawed and Abraxas' lips twitched upward in a smile at his familiar's cooing. A familiar had soothing capabilities for its owner, all knew this. Thoros was happy that Abraxas finally utilized his birds to their full potential, not simply using them as decorative figureheads of lavishness.

They ordered food and then instantly Abraxas switched to French: _''I found it.''_

'' _Really?''_

'' _I found it and it's in my pocket and it **doesn't know French**.''_

'' _How? I thought he knew French.''_

'' _Not until 1957 he won't. Antoinette teaches him and **it** hasn't even met her yet. It was created around my wedding.'' _Abraxas grinned widely, his crooked teeth forever a reminder of that Black-Malfoy struggle. Thoros had backed the right abraxan. He'd never dared ask but Abraxas had to have something to do with those winged horses, didn't it? No, now was not the time to ask. He would ask on his Death Bed. Thoros noticed how Abraxas looked to his left far too often. Like a cat that saw something there that you didn't.

'' _I found another one, too. I'm working on acquiring them both. Go take Narcissa out on a trip. She'll be safe in that place. It's time we sped this up.''_

'' _Another one?''_ Thoros was horrified. He noticed his friend's deteriorating state and outstretched a hand to him in consolation, but Abraxas didn't meet it. He kept his hands on his bird only. Abeforth didn't mind animals in his bar if they were accompanied by well-paying clients. Abraxas was nothing if not well paying. He flashed a smile at Aberforth and tipped heftily. Aberforth's eyes widened and he scooped up the galleons greedily as he put up their food.

Abraxas nodded to Thoros' questioning glance, affirming. They ate and the peacock cawed, it looked straight left where Abraxas' gaze tended to stray.

'' _Where's the other one?''_

'' _The headmaster has it.''_

'' _Fuck.''_

'' _Thoros, I need…''_ Abraxas flexed and unflexed his hands a few times in quick succession. He closed his eyes and breathed heavily. Deliberately slowly he picked his words. Their eyes locked. A small spark of red shone in silver and Thoros tensed. _''Thoros, I need you to trust me that I am capable of this. It's going to help cure me. The only one that knows how to reverse my situation is him, but he's dead, so the closest bet I have is one of these things. I might get my health back, Thoros…you haven't an idea how… weak… I am now.''_

Thoros' throat seized up when he realised that he could tell his friend now, could tell him that Voldemort wasn't dead and that pushing himself into such dark magic could be avoided. But Abraxas Malfoy was unpredictable in that regard, that Thoros didn't know how he would react. If he would do the sensible thing and help everyone kill him, or if he would be tugged along by nostalgia and love.

'' _Abraxas, those things **lie**.'' _He warned. It would be the closest thing to a warning he would give his friend. Tom Riddle liked to lie and why wouldn't his soul pieces lie? Why wouldn't they warp the truth into perversions, into parodies of reality? _''Give it to me.''_

'' _By the end of Yule you'll have them both.''_ Abraxas said, resolute and hungrily keeping the horcrux by his side. This worried Thoros, very much. _''If it's lying we'll destroy them all. You can do it.''_

''Just like that?''Thoros slipped in English and caught himself when he felt pressure by being near one of those things. It wasn't nearly as potent as the original was, but it came close. The aura was similar in how suffocating it felt to be around when irate. He recalled how they'd made fun of Tom Riddle like this, by speaking French behind the non-pureblood's back and snickering. How that had cost them.

''Just like that.''

''Don't lie to yourself, Abraxas, please.'' Thoros whispered hoarsely, not feeling good about this. He'd had his hands on the locket for very little, but it had been enough.

''Thoros,'' Abraxas said, now in French, with a giddy smirk: _''You forget who I am to them all.''_

* * *

Albus Dumbledore wrote a letter with his good hand. On his cursed hand remained the horcrux, gloating. His voice switched from Tom Riddle to Ariana Dumbledore as the magic's mood shifted. The elder wizard tried not to let it get to him, but his sister's voice saying slander was hard to tune out. A Hallow. Tom Marvolo Riddle had created a horcrux out of a Hallow. Dumbledore wrote his letter, in hopes that the recipient would be in good enough health to read it. In his robe pocket was the Elder Wand. On his finger was the Resurrection Stone. Inside his desk... in a compartment unopened since 1981 ... was the Cloak Of Invisibility. It took Albus Dumbledore a lot not to open it. Were he any other man he would have seized the opportunity to master Death, but that was not his ambition anymore. That was not his obsession. He welcomed Death. Albus finished writing his letter and gave it to Fawkes to take it. Not caring, in his dying age, for anyone that caught the bird going where it would have to. Albus Dumbledore was dying and any scandal that Rita Skeeter might dig up turned trivial.

''Sending love letters, in your age? Love ruined you.'' Tom Riddle sneered. Or was it Ariana? No, his sister had never been so hateful. Not once. She'd always been fond of Gellert. They'd translate flower names between languages together.

''Love is the only thing that can save you.''

''I do not love.'' Tom Riddle proudly exclaimed, sixteen and forever trapped in that state of mind.

''Not even Abraxas Malfoy?'' Dumbledore leaned forward, smiling now like an old man having caught a youth in a tangle. ''Not even Nobby Leach?''

''I don't know what you mean.'' The horcux said, and maybe it didn't. Maybe it didn't know the things its original did. Though. ''Surely you've seen the dead, you claim you've seen my sister – surely you've seen others. Your father and grandparents perhaps?'' Albus Dumbledore knew his days were numbered, but by Merlin, he vowed to give Tom Riddle a run for his dying breath. The horcrux squirmed. It was so strange, to have a piece of mortal immortality trapped within an object of immortal mortality. ''Come now, Tom. Do indulge. Do share. Don't keep all of these details to yourself. You've done something unimaginable at age sixteen - created a horcrux out of a Hallow. Not even Gellert dreamt of such a possibility.''

''I saw a horned snake recently.'' Tom Riddle said, scrunching up his face in bemusement. Dumbledore felt completely derailed by such an honest statement from the teenager. ''It called me stupid.''


	19. October Overture

Abraxas Malfoy was not an observant man when he had other, more pressing things to observe. He couldn't care less of the going-ons in other people's classes; especially a class as boring as History. It was still taught by that good for nothing ghost that insisted on being tedious and uninclined to teach anything of use. Most students didn't know a damned thing that happened in the 20th century, unless their parents or grandparents told them as much. This came back to bite said professor on his ectoplasm rear because – and this was hilarious in Abraxas' opinion, but he didn't let on – the children themselves wanted to make a play about that part of history. It would be seen as an attempt to get extra credit without writing boring history reports on the Goblin Revolutions. Or wars. Or what have you.

So, all of October, the children practised. And it was quite a big production, too. Abraxas would catch titbits of Ginny Weasley practising her lines during Defence class. Luna would pretend to be carrying things as she would languidly move from one end of the room to another. When asked whom she played she simply shrugged and said: ''The passage of time.''

Abraxas was too preoccupied with his plots to truly gain insight into what the play was about, or how the scenes went. Though, a fifth year Ravenclaw by the name of Melly Johnson (muggleborn) kept asking him about Voldemort. How he duelled. (He liked to twirl his wand before commencing, said it brought him luck) How he behaved. (He was very stressed as far as I recall) What his favourite colour was. (Purple, but he said it was green) What his family life was like. (Abysmal at best) Where'd he grow up. (Muggle orphanage in London) Did he ever have lovers aside from you? ( _Stop asking me these things, can't you see I'm too busy with class!_ )

This would not be the first or last time a professor was accosted during October by a student. Minerva swatted at them like flies with her wand, tumbling them out of the way as she traversed the hallways, grumbling under her breath about meddlers. Snape glared at them until they backed down, but one of the students kept writing down everything he did and how he did it. It was nerve wracking.

Some students went about enchanting muggle radios to play music in a magic infested space because to have a play without music was heresy! Flitwick's choir refused to sing choir songs and instead fully dedicated itself to the Play.

The horcrux thought it was wonderful. ''I've always liked plays. Remember when we went to see the Wizard of Oz? That was a good time.'' He had a smile plastered on his face, this time not made out of jewels because the diadem was in Abraxas' robe pocket. It leaned on Abraxas, pushing at him, prodding at his mind, and coming up empty. Abraxas wouldn't be fooled. Whilst he liked the attention and the fact that he had _a_ Tom back in his life he would dare not disrespect himself by falling in love with a _thing_ , rather than a person that had gone and well died. Thank you very much. After Thoros and he had had that conversation, the horcrux kept prying, wanting to know what they'd talk about. Abraxas would say private matters and inquire about their plans of Dumbledore Destruction. That seemed to temper the tempest of immortality for a bit. It would be during Yule, or rather Christmas break as everyone called it nowadays. Abraxas had scowled at the phrasing, not liking it one bit. He wasn't religious, far be it. But he didn't like how the muggleborns encroached on magic customs and shifted them into commercialism. Fewer and fewer wizards and witches understood what Yule or Walpurgisnacht or Samhain even were!

Nobby Leach had begun that fad and it had stayed. The Legacy of Nobby Leach: Christmas instead of Yule. Abraxas knew he was being petty for thinking that, but he couldn't help it. Rather, being in Tom's presence (horcrux or no, it was still the same soul) brought up some unfortunate memories for Abraxas.

Most of October flashed by in a blink and it was Halloween instead of Samhain. Abraxas took his seat among the students and the professors, none electing to sit in their rightful seats this evening because The Play had finally been made available for viewing. Albus Dumbledore cheerfully sat next to Abraxas and elbowed him playfully. Sometimes Abraxas felt like the man was much younger than himself. It was an envious thought. Minerva and Pomona rustled in anticipation. Most of the student body was involved in some way or another. The History Ghost, Abraxas forgot his name, was priming his judgement to either fail or pass students on their depiction of history. History the ghost hadn't even seen himself! Goodness, no wonder he took offence to teaching current history, he didn't know it!

A fifth year Slytherin got on their makeshift stage and all lit wands pointed at them. Albus whispered how excited he was to see what the children had thought up. Abraxas cut his joy quickly, finding himself grumpy and irritated due to the horcrux's draining, but important presence: ''They'll probably enact the Duel. Prepare to see your boyfriend perish once more.''

''My dear b-''

''Stop calling me that. Slughorn calls me that.''

''Chap.''

''Oh that's worse.''

''My dear chap,'' Dumbledore placed a hand on Abraxas' shoulder and he glanced at it and it was so bloody intoxicating to have two horcruxes on his person at the same time. It made him feel healthy. ''That was a long time ago.''

The introduction of what the play was about passed. Everyone applauded.

Luna Lovegood came, carrying a note which she tapped with her wand and enlarged so everyone saw: 1945.

She moved from one end of the stage to the other.

Ginny Weasley, with a very large red beard came sauntering out into the stage. She rubbed her conjured up beared with exquisite ease, as if having a beard was something common for her. Slowly she sized up the audience with her eyes, and Abraxas swore there were some twinkles in her eyes.

A sixth year girl by the name of Jenny Travers shimmied up to the stage. She had very long blond hair that she tied in a high ponytail. There was no beard on her face. But everyone that knew their History could gauge instantly that it was she who played Gellert Grindelwald.

''Albus Dumbledore.'' the actress spoke, her voice leaning into a German accent. Dumbledore whispered something about him being Hungarian and knowing English very well at that point in their lives. "You came to duel me."

Ginny or rather Young Dumbledore narrowed his eyes and said: "I came here to destroy you."

Abraxas looked over to Albus and saw the man grimacing slightly at the phrasing, no doubt remembering the actual duel. Trying to be empathetic and placing himself in Albus' shoes, Abraxas instantly gauged that he could never do such a thing to Tom. Tom deserved to die, not be imprisoned somewhere, suffering for a long, long time. Though, their situation was vastly different. Abraxas turned back to the Play.

Ginny Weasley – Young Dumbledore took out his wand and aimed at Gellert. ''Staring contest now. Who loses has to forfeit his wand.''

Gellert Grindelwald flipped his hair and said: ''Prepare to fail.''

Luna passed by with a note saying: **Six hours later.**

Gellert Grindelwald blinked and cursed colourfully in German. He threw his wand in defeat and Young Dumbledore caught it expertly, turning to the audience and winking. ''I win!'' Ginny finger gunned at Albus Dumbledore.

The History Ghost was beyond confused.

Abraxas found himself giggling at the interpretation. Albus was just staring, his face splitting in a very wide, very bemused smile. The students started clapping.

Students scurried to set the next scene, conjuring up what Abraxas recognized as the Ministry Atrium. Minerva leaned in and whispered: ''Is this the election of Nobby Leach, do you think?''

''I think there's quite a lot before that that needs handling.''

''The play lasts 40 minutes and they spent 10 full minutes on the staring contest.'' Minerva brought up some valid points. Albus shrugged. Abraxas became uncomfortable.

A young man, seventh year Gryffindor, sauntered up the stage. He wore a dress and was very angry looking. His hair was black and his dress was black and his lipstick was black and his eyeliner was black and oh mon merlin Abraxas recognized what this was before everyone. He'd been there, high as a kite, but he'd been there! He snickered in glee and cast a spell to protect his ear drums.

Some nondescript students raised their wands, approaching this person, and whispered: ''We want equal rights. We want equal rights. Nobloods! Nobloods! ''

Some more people joined, not the crowd asking for their rights, but to the Lady. The girl that played Gellert Grindelwald switched out to a robe depicting peacocks and waved at Abraxas. Some more dark haired men and women joined them. Ah, one of them was Arcturus Black, wasn't it? Orion's father had been politically active in the fifties and early sixties. Not many people liked him because one of his points was to make squib hunting legal sport again.

They moved closer to the Lady and as the shouting of the crowd grew larger: ''We want equal rights we want equal rights! Nobloods! Nobloods!'' All of the purebloods looked between each other and chuckled knowingly, they took out their wands and aimed at the throat of the now-furious Lady.

Albus Dumbledore caught on and whispered a profanity under his breath, obviously bracing himself.

'' **EQUAL RIGHTS?''**

The indignation of the exclamation and the sheer volume of having the actor's voice amplified by so many wands caused many members of the audience great pain. Abraxas survived because he acted on time. Windows broke. Paintings ripped. Glass shattered. The enchanted ceiling shook. For a brief moment, Abraxas thought that it was the real Walburga Black there with them all.

The actor turned to the pureblood entourage and sneered: ''THEY WANT EQUAL RIGHTS?! FILTH! HALFBLOODS! MUDBLOODS! DEVIANTS! HALFBREEDS! NO EQUAL RIGHTS FOR YOU!'' Began to point out members from the audience: ''NO EQUALITY FOR YOU! OR YOU! OR YOU!'' At Severus Snape: ''NONE FOR YOU ESPECIALLY, BATMAN!'' The laughter that burst from the audience at that moment was legendary.

Abraxas was wheezing through a cough that seized his chest in that moment and the horcrux closest to him soothed his illness a bit, slightly. He wasn't going to question Tom Riddle's magic. Albus kept his hand to himself and shook his head, remembering Walburga Black frightfully. Minerva bit back smiles. Pomona whispered something about needing a not-cigarette cigarette to get through this.

A young boy, probably a first year, emerged from the non-elite crowd and said: ''Yeah! We want equal rights and it's high time we bloody got some! I make a promise to you now that this type of behaviour cannot stand any longer. Pureblood culture is death to magical culture!''

Everyone gasped. To go against Lady Walburga Black publically! The nerve! The bravery! The boldness! The genius! The daring!

The choir emerged suddenly from the audience and sang:

Who's willing to fight

for what is right?

The young boy of all eleven years, the underdog, shouted now, passionately: ''It is time for blood to become obsolete! It is time for the elite to crumble!''

Abraxas Malfoy watched, his hands shaking, his illness emerging triumphantly over him. The horcrux whispered to him soothing words, but Abraxas couldn't take his eyes off of the stark difference. Nobby Leach had honestly looked like a small eleven year old muggleborn going up against an adult pureblood wizard. If the actors duelled, the one playing Walburga Black would win without any hesitation. Nobby Leach's admission in 1961 had come out of nowhere, had been laughed at in pureblood circles, had been joked about, had been undermined, had _blindsighted_ **all of them** when the mud-ggleborn was **_elected_**.

Orion Black's father Arcturus Black ran for Minister in 1962.

The choir clapped in sync and sang:

Who's the man that fights for a chance to see

a world without blood purity?

Minerva grasped Abraxas' shoulder and whispered carefully: ''Are you okay?''

Abraxas looked at the Play, looked at Nobby Leach being thrown up in the air by the student body playing the majority of the wizarding world: ''Nobby Leach! Nobby Leach!''

His tongue turned to ash.

''Nobby Leach for Minister!''

''Mud pride!''

''Down with the Twenty-Eight!''

And then the director, the one fighting for their History grade, waved their wand and everyone stopped, frozen in place. They moved up to the stage and whispered, voice carrying, the choir softly giving background noise: ''Nobby Leach was elected in 1962 as the first muggleborn Minister for Magic, in 1966 he was elected again. In 1968, he was murdered by a conservative pureblood faction.''

Melly Johnson with enchanted red eyes and in a purple robe surged towards Nobby Leach.

''You-Know-Who killed Nobby Leach.''

A look of sheer hatred. Nobby Leach grinned at the audience and turned slightly towards where Lord Voldemort was.

''DIE, MUDBLOOD!'' Lord Voldemort made a gun with his fingers and instead of saying avada kedavra shouted: ''Pew! Pew! I got you, you're dead!''

Nobby Leach clutched his chest and fell dramatically to the floor, someone had cushioned with a charm. Abraxas stared, wide-eyed, as he watched them sweep his crime under the rug. Had they blamed Tom on Leach's death? Truly? Abraxas hadn't known that. Abraxas honestly hadn't known that. His stomach twisted. It was easy to blame Voldemort on crimes that weren't his, wasn't it, now that he was gone?

The director spoke over the spectacle, over the silence from the audience: ''Riots began. Practically everyone that wasn't a pureblood lord or lady rallied to the streets of Diagon Alley and protested.''

''We want equal rights!'' More menacing than before, more angry than before, ''We want equal rights! No more purebloods! No more purebloods! Remember Leach! **Never forget**!''

''The protestors grew restless and attacked purebloods who retaliated by fighting back. Civil war was just around the corner.'' They raised their wand and called all of the light into it. Now drenched in darkness, the audience could wait only in anticipation.

''The Wizarding War began in 1970.''

Some rustling nearby. Whispering.

''It is I, your lord!'' A voice said. Proud and haughty and arrogant. ''I’m back baby!''

Light shone on the figure. The actress that played Lord Voldemort smiled and brandished about her wand, passing between the crowd of actors and actresses.

''Who the hell are you?'' asked someone.

Lord Voldemort laughed like a teenage girl, because he was played by one. ''Me? Don't you recognize your master? I don't blame you, though, I did a disappearing act between 1968 and 1970.''

''I didn't vote for you!''

''Yeah, who the ruddy hell are you?''

Lord Voldemort snapped his fingers and from behind emerged slowly a two file march of students garbed in black. They booed and billowed menacingly, attempting to scare the audience. Some actually whimpered, poor things. Abraxas knew that they were trying to play Dementors, but they honestly simply reminded him of Severus Snape sans coffee.

One dementor glared fiercely at Severus Snape who glowered right back. It was like watching a dog glowering at another dog, when in fact it was his own reflection. Albus bit back chortles.

Abraxas couldn't look away from the purple robed Lord Voldemort. ''I am the heir of Slytherin, you may see that I am wearing his colours. Look at my green robe!''

''My lord,'' a dementor said, ''that's purple.''

''Do NOT listen to the colorblind dementor, please and thank you!''

Abraxas really regretted not having his peacock familiar with him during this trying time, but he'd been afraid of spooking it with flashes and abrupt sounds. Safety first!

''Well, I think you're an absolute wanker, look at you!''

''Listen, mate,'' Voldemort spoke back in cockney dialect, ''callin' a bloke with dementors at his disposal a wanker is the stupidest bloody thin' ever to be done in the 'istory of thin's.'' to the dementors: ''Let the kissing spree begin! OOooh death by Cootiesss!''

Lord Voldemort gleefully danced in place as the Dementors attacked. Some screamed: ''Ew! Oh no! My mortal enemy! _Tongue_!''

A few seconds passed and very few people remained. Voldemort looked them over and cheekily asked: ''Have you accepted Lord Voldemort as your one true lord and saviour?''

Exclamations of: ''Yes.'' filled the air.

Lord Voldemort turned to Abraxas Malfoy and said: ''Hey, gorgeous babe!''

Abraxas Malfoy laughed, horrified. Minerva took points for impropriety.

Luna moved across the stage now, carrying a new card that said: **1981**

A nondescript manor.

Students playing death eaters. Lord Voldemort sitting at a table, looking straight at the audience.

''I am the most special dark lord ever to dark lord.''

Abraxas had to snort at that.

The death eaters all nodded along: ''Yes you are. You're the best dark lord. Who's a good dark lord, you are, oh yes you are, my lord!''

Lord Voldemort smiled giddily and clapped along to their praise.

Albus was wheezing with laughter.

''I'm going to go and kill an _infant_ just to prove I'm the bestest dark lord ever to dark lord.'' Lord Voldemort exclaimed. The death eaters all cheered.

The actor that played Walburga Black had simply switched his dress for a combat robe and was draping over Lord Voldemort: ''My loooord, Oh my looord! Please, pleaseee, take me with you. It is I! Bellatrix Lestrange! Your bestest death eater, your second in command, my looord!''

''Aw shite, Bellatrix, can't you see I'm too gay for these advances?'' A wink towards Abraxas Malfoy. Severus took points for impropriety, but Abraxas could see he was trying desperately to fight off a smile that just wouldn't drop from his face.

Minerva remained impassive in an ocean of laughter.

The scene shifted to a living room. A front door.

On one side, in the living room, there was a boy, sixth year Hufflepuff, that sat quietly with a girl, seventh year Ravenclaw, who held a beach ball in her hands. She cooed at the beach ball.

''Knock knock!'' Lord Voldemort said from the other side of the door.

The boy rose and went to the door, asking: ''Who's there?''

''You know….''

''You know who?''

Lord Voldemort kicked the door down and said: ''You bet your blood traitor arse it is, James Potter!''

James Potter turned to his family: girl and beachball, and said: ''Lily, take Harry and run!''

Lord Voldemort made a gun with his fingers and aimed at James as Lily ran: ''Pew! Pew! Pew! You're triple dead, so dead, no take-backsies!''

James Potter fell to the cushioned floor and stuck his tongue out.

Lily dropped the beachball and made her hands into guns, because Lily Potter looked like someone who could wield two guns at the same time and be badass: ''Don't come any closer or I'll kill you.''

''Ha!'' Lord Voldemort laughed: ''Doll, _try_ and take me down.'' He aimed his gun at Lily and they waited.

U CAN'T TOUCH THIS by MC HAMMER began to play on a magically enchanted radio.

''Pew pew!'' Lily fired. Lord Voldemort evaded expertly.

Can't touch this

''Pew!'' Voldemort shot. Lily evaded.

Can't touch this

This went on for a bit before ultimately Voldemort shot Lily dead. The music stopped.

Then someone from the crowd yelled out: ''CAN touch this, am I right?'' Severus Snape took a bazillion points for that level of impropriety.

Some students emerged from behind the stage, ushering up a cradle near Lord Voldemort. They mock bowed to him and said: ''Harry Potter, my lord.'' then they snickered at each other. Lord Voldemort raised his wand and turned to the audience.

''It is time that I cement my power by destroying a baby. First his parents, of course, because I never had any and it seems weird to witness healthy family dynamics.''

Hysterical laughter from the back. Abraxas laughed at that student's laughter more than the upcoming catastrophe. The horcrux blinked and said: ''After this is over, I really need you to explain to me what the bloody hell this play is about.''

Abraxas nodded.

Lord Voldemort neared the cradle and peered into it. He scrunched up his face and went to say something when suddenly – OUT OF NOWHERE – a stray rattle toy was thrown from the cradle, hitting Voldemort straight in the face.

''FUCK OFF!'' A deep, completely un-baby voice, shouted.

Lord Voldemort fell, defeated by the Boy-Who-Lived.

Minerva McGonagall laughed finally.

''I'M DEAD!'' Lord Voldemort shouted from the floor and then closed his eyes. Some of the dementors came back to take Voldemort from the scene of the crime.

The horcrux was cold. Abraxas looked towards it and saw a man contemplating. ''I've got to wonder about that last admission.''

Everyone expectantly looked towards the History Ghost. He looked paler than usual, which was honestly saying something as this was a ghost.

''This is all so historically inaccurate!''

Albus Dumbledore spoke up then, the authority on all things all the time, his eyes twinkling: ''I couldn't have made it more authentic even if I tried, dear Binns.''

''You mean to say that instead of duelling Grindelwald for six hours you had a staring contest with him?'' Binns fumed, hating everyone for making a mockery of his subject.

Then, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, like a true agent of chaos he was, caressed his beard and confessed: ''Oh quite so. Most tense six hours of my life, I should say.''

Binns began to dress down the play and Abraxas Malfoy found himself saying: ''Yes, actually, this all happened.''

Severus Snape, as his death eater, claimed that they did sometimes praise their lord when he felt his self-esteem crumbling.

Binns kept getting more and more frustrated.

The only thing that Binns had absolutely no problem with was the portrayal of Walburga Black. That he had called stellar interpretation of facts to play.

''It seems that I shall have to award everyone involved in this monstrosity bonus points. You all pass History.'' Binns grumbled, completely baffled by the turn of events.

Everyone cheered.


	20. November Nightmare I

Lena and Merrythought bathed in moonlight on a beach in Albania. It was wild and untameable, scarce with people except for them two. Owls hooted gently, growing louder as time passed and they became emboldened with the night. The sea slammed into the sand and dragged itself back to repeat.

''Tell me again why we're doing this?''

''Magic seeping. Figured out when I was young vampire.''

''From the moon?''

''Witch and moon are best friends.''

''All right.'' Merrythought crossed her hands and wandlessly cast a warming spell on herself because it was November and there was little chance of her taking a chance on hypothermia. Her vampire lover could do whatever she damn well pleased. Though, it did give Merrythought strength to be below direct moonlight. It was a cloudless night. Towels spread underneath them, legs crossed over in calm and leisure.

The only difference here was that they could actually look at the moon without being blinded. The sun was much more shy, Lena said, didn't like being looked at. Merrythought found that point of view true enough.

Around them was a shield made of magic, repelling muggles and the like. Lena's doing. Runes, she said, were important to know. Merrythought asked her about the rune research she was going to talk about at the conference. It was a combination of runes that keyed into a person's magical signature instead of their wand. A more advanced form of tracing, to be used on ex-criminals or criminals. It was, from Lena's explanation, very hard to break.

At midnight a red owl found Merrythought. It hooted angrily and clawed at her urgently. Merrythought tried swatting at it, but Lena tore the letter from its beak. Drenched in blood, it drew Lena in specifically. She smelled it and it was like no blood she had ever smelled, or tasted, or looked, or even believed existed. Her tongue outstretched to taste it, but Merrythought slammed the letter out of her reach, screaming: ''That's fairy blood!''

Lena jumped back, realising the mistake. Blood was food to vampires. Fairy blood to a vampire was like fairy food to a human. Same rules applied. One bite earned you eternal fairy servitude to said fairy whose food you accepted.

''Why would a fairy draw its own blood to use to write letter?'' Lena inquired, paler than usual. It was odd to see a corpse look deader, but straining circumstances demanded it.

Merrythought laughed uncomfortably and opened the letter as it was addressed to her very own self. She read carefully, keeping track of every wording, of every swirl of a written letter, of every possible happenstance where trickery may occur.

It was a plea for help.

Merrythought jumped without informing Lena. She charged into a sprint to get her wand and supplies – because she’d been kidnapped by fairies unprepared that time. This time she would show them reckoning. Her wedding ring glowed, her soul screamed at her to run.

Lena surged after her. ''Wait! I can help.''

''You don't understand what fairies are capable of.'' Merrythought recalled her tangle with them and shuddered, her shoulders shaking, her resolve unwavering.

Another letter was missed in their frantic need to get ready and prepare. It was _also_ addressed to Merrythought, but had her student's elegant, slightly shaky scrawl instead of her wife's messy one.

They apparated to Lena's home where Lena grabbed the first weapon she could find: an axe which she used to cut firewood. Her steel grip tightened while watching Merrythought struggling for coherent thought, her memories drowning her, her experience haunting her.

''I left her. I knew she wasn't truly happy with her, but Beatrice was so convincing. No one can manage the Unseelie Queen. She breaks her lovers. She breaks them all, but they seemed so happy. So bitterly, awfully happy.'' Merrythought rambled. She took iron knives and conjured lead to put in her pockets to weigh her down to the ground. Then, remembering: ''Iron doesn't hurt you, does it?''

Lena shook her head no. She swung the axe and said: ''Nah. Just the sun and my own trying to get ready in the morning without a reflection.''

Merrythought laughed and then felt bad for laughing when her wife was in peril. ''I'm an idiot!''

''A very beautiful one, at that.'' Lena chirpily supplied. They got what they needed and set off to Faerie.

''How do you get to Faerie?'' Lena asked, axe slugged over her shoulder. Merrythought gripped her wand and repeated spells. Most, if not all, aquatic in nature.

''You need to find a fairy tree.''

Lena knew where one was because back when she'd had a coven to run there used to be a fairy problem. Problem, as in, there being a being that stole all of their things, ate their crops (they weren't for eating but for selling because Lena's sister's style of dress was expensive and vampires, too, had to make a livelihood), and when confronted told the vampires it had tidied up some of the coven caves and called it minimalistic. Lena didn't really know if the fairy was still in that tree, but it seemed easier to move coven than to argue with a fairy that thought it was helping when it wasn't actually. Fairies were literal, powerful, and incredibly polite about their ruining your life.

The fairy was still in there.

Lena remembered how much her sisters had argued with her and told her off for not doing anything about the fairy as their coven leader. She took the axe with glee and swung at the tree. It tore open and a fairy screamed in pain, clutching at its sides as blood (the same kind of blood from the letter) began to seep out of the wound. Lena was tempted to lick it, but Merrythought slapped her hard on the back in congratulations and successfully brought her back to the present.

''In our time of mourning you attack!'' cried the fairy helplessly. ''You deserve such a whack!''

Merrythought was already jumping through the portal, armed with knowledge of what to expect. Lena carefully stepped over the fairy and her throat constricted as a fear of the unknown tried to crawl up it. Merrythought pushed back a hand through the glittery portal and Lena took it.

* * *

Samhain was a sacred ritual for purebloods.

It was something muggleborns could never understand, as they hadn't truly been raised to it. Sure, they could certainly _pretend_ to understand it. Nonetheless, they nearly always shirked away from the ritual aspects. Walpurgisnacht was International Worker’s day. Yule was Christmas. Samhain was Halloween. This ignored the important parts of being magic. Everyone wished for wand waving without understanding that the trees cut down needed appeasing. Everyone wished for magic at their fingertips without understanding that magic had to be earned.

After the students had been ushered to their dormitories, most of the professors had gone to bed, except for Abraxas Hyperion Malfoy, who crutched towards the Forest. It beckoned for him, oozing with magic. It hadn't been forbidden in his time at Hogwarts. Only after those wretched acromantulas had nested did someone realise what a safety hazard it was.

It was cold. Much more than Abraxas was comfortable with. He tugged at his robe and cloak and carefully went down from the castle. There were voices in his head, more and more curious. He recognized Tom's voice, and his voice, but there was a third.

_I must admit that was a lovely play. Much lovelier than all the ones I witnessed in my days. What did you think of it? Their usage of flair was ingenious. Such simple methods used for complicated topics. My friends always told me I liked to complicate things, but it is them that wanted a castle on fairy ground._

Abraxas ignored the voice.

''Did a baby really kill me? It can't have!'' The horcrux bemoaned. ''I am Lord Voldemort,'' ire, ''and those CHILDREN made a MOCKERY of me!''

_I spoke to young Tom Riddle, too... he ignored me as you do._

Abraxas ignored all of the voices as he moved. Samhain was celebrated differently in all families. Malfoys liked to be introspective. He thought of his father, Hyperion, and traversed deeper. The farther he would go, the more magical energy he could take to use for his ritual.

Trees shifted to watch him and Abraxas had grown up in a magical, alive world and he was not afraid. Tom Riddle would have asked questions about how it worked, why things moved during Samhain that wouldn't otherwise and there were explanations somewhere out there, written down by a furious and excited hand – but Abraxas didn't care for such things. The veil between the spiritual realms melted this fine evening.

However, what _did_ make him question this night was the vacancy of the forest. He had yet to spot a spider, a Centaur, a Unicorn, a squirrel, a bug.

It didn't deter him.

_You know, most people would turn back. That would be the **wise** thing to do._

''Remind me why you're taking me into the Forest?'' horcrux asked, crossing arms as it was being dragged along with the diadem in Abraxas' pocket.

''It's Samhain.'' Abraxas explained. ''It's important to me.''

''That holiday about the dead?'' Tom Riddle was always afraid of Samhain, as all of the dead people he could summon during Samhain to say hello to were dead by his own hand.

''Yes.''

_I like it. I used to wish my daughter well, but then her ghost came back to haunt me. It is a dangerous bit of magic._

When not even moonlight could slip through towering tree tops, Abraxas sat down and breathed in deeply. He took out the diadem from his robe pocket and tossed it away from himself. The voices were silenced. This was about his connection to his ancestors, not magical influences. It was something Tom Riddle could never understand, what with being an orphan and raised muggle. He tried to pass as an educated, savvy wizard – truly he did; but some things couldn't be learned. Some things were simply known.

He closed his eyes and placed his hands to the magically charged soil. Usually when halfbloods heard Samhain they thought: that holiday where you offer up sacrifices and invoke your ancestors' names. Which honestly had a lot of truth in it, but still it wasn't what Abraxas liked to do. He used this mostly to come to terms with his own mortality by trying to feel his father's magic. He couldn't care less for Armand Malfoi and the rest of them. Least of all did he care for Yvette Malfoy.

The process was similar to learning occlumency. You had to clear your mind of your mortal thoughts in order to speak to a mage that had transcended such planes. It wasn't like he could see his father before him. No, it wasn't like that. He could feel him and it was enough. Abraxas would say things. The presence would remain. Abraxas would say goodbye and the presence would leave.

This was the coldest Samhain Abraxas had ever known. Usually he practised underneath Hyperion's tree. Malfoys buried their stock underneath their respective wand trees. Abraxas liked to think his willow tree would bloom tall. His father's wand had been cypress and it was one of the tallest trees at the Malfoy estate.

* * *

''All right, if you're _very_ good and you read all of your texts we can go to London to look at the animals.''

''Even dinosaurs?''

''Son, we've **talked** about this... they're _dead_.''

''Noo. They're just in the **ground**.''

''We can look at _other_ animals.''

''I want to look at dinosaurs!''

Hyperion Malfoy regretted ever mentioning those Dragon cousins to his son. Abraxas had latched onto them and there was nothing that could sway him from his obsession. Yvette called his son slow and distanced herself as much as she could. She had tried homeschooling at first, but his tempo irritated the prodigy. There was yet a mage to beat her Beauxbatons scores. Hyperion wasn't a genius, but he was kind and he found that being kind opened more doors than being smart ever could.

Abraxas looked at him with his eyes and his mother's scowl and Hyperion told him that if he finished his texts they could go and see something BETTER than dinosaurs. Curiosity piqued, Abraxas read aloud texts. It took them much longer than Hyperion thought it would, but he tried to teach his son. Once they finished Hyperion treated him with ice cream.

The following day Abraxas jumped in his and Yvette's bed and demanded they go to London to look at the better-than-dinosaurs dinosaurs Hyperion had mentioned. Yvette snorted into her pillow and wished them good hunting. They kissed on their department and Hyperion asked Yvette if she'd like to join them. The Frenchwoman declined tersely.

Hyperion asked an elf for coffee and was met with the blackest coffee he'd ever witnessed. He savoured each taste. Looking at a pocket watch he dug out of his plain blue robe he saw that it was much too early for his son to be up.

''Abraxas, listen, we're going to be around muggles and you mustn't act like magic is real. Well, children probably think inane things muggle or no, but still, _please_ , pretend you're muggle.''

''But if I pretend to be muggle my magic's going to pack all of its things and leave through my nose!'' Abraxas exclaimed frightfully. Hyperion blinked. He mouthed 'what?' and asked Abraxas where he'd heard that.

''Walbie told me.''

''Don't listen to Walbie. I mean, _listen_ to her, but don't listen _to_ her.'' Hyperion yawned and drank some more coffee.

They went to the London Zoo garbed in transfigured muggle clothes that were outdated by at least ten years. Abraxas' eighth birthday was in a few days and he had yet to get his son a present. Not from negligence, just – Abraxas had _one_ thing he wanted and it was very hard to acquire.

''For my birthday, dad, dad, dad, are you listening? For my birthday, remember I told you, I want a tyrannosaurus rex with a pterodactyl to fly him over everywhere and that one with the longest names I still can't finish reading.'' Yvette gave their son a book on dinosaurs to get him to read more, saying it was a nice blend of pictures and words.

''Dad, dad, dad, dad, dad, dad, dad, dad,'' Hyperion turned to his son. Abraxas paused before asking: ''Am I really stupid?''

''No, you just don't read well.'' Hyperion said without a moment's hesitation. They went through many different areas of the zoo, none sparked any glee in his son. He was happy, but not gleeful. Not ready to get rid of his dinosaurs fixation. Walburga liked normal things. She liked _acromantulas_. **Perfectly attainable** gifts! How in Merlin's name did Abraxas expect Hyperion to get him a T-rex? Hyperion didn't know necromancy! Yvette did, but she refused to tell him how to do it, calling him a slave to his son's whims.

Hyperion only realised after he'd walked twenty metres away from his son that Abraxas had stopped moving and was staring at a bird. It was very flamboyant. His son liked to dress in shades of hues neither Hyperion nor Yvette felt okay with. Yvette whispered that they needed to match him with someone that knew how to dress. Hyperion shrugged and said that Walburga Black knew how. Yvette's eyes had sparked hungrily for acclaim a Black could bring if brought over to the Malfoy family. Sometimes Hyperion wondered if his wife ever saw people as people, and not as pawns. He was her favourite pawn and she took care of him, but he feared of what she could do to Abraxas were they left alone.

''Dad,'' Abraxas pointed to the bird, ''what's that?''

''Why don't you read the sign and tell me?''

Abraxas scowled, but looked at the sign at the bars and squinted his eyes as if willing the letters to form a nice line he could read.

''The quu–''

''No, no, son, that's a _P_.''

Pause. Abraxas glared at the letters. Then: ''This is _stupid_.''

''Come on, practise makes perfect. Don't you want to go to Hogwarts?''

''You can homeschool me.'' Abraxas giddily said. ''I like it when we learn together.''

Hyperion was touched. He had to touch his heart and not accept this alternative. ''No, well, son, that is kind of complicated.'' Yvette kept pushing him to have more children so they could have a spare heir. An heir that would be better and more her style. Hyperion refused because he didn't like to affirm her sick perfectionism. His parents had been perfectionist and it had left him without a sister, who was estranged and living off in Australia of all places. He wondered what she would think of Abraxas…

''Dad, are you going to get me a dinosaur for my birthday really? You said I could ask for anything I wanted.'' Abraxas suddenly switched back to a horrible topic.

Hyperion began to sweat like a parent that wanted to make their child happy, but sadly the child did not understand that Death didn't just rent dinosaurs. ''You know, son, birds are modern dinosaurs.'' Hyperion tried to sway his son into safer territory. He needed a medal and a vacation to the Bahamas. The magical elite kind. Not the regular kind.

''You're lying, nuh huh.''

''Chickens are dinosaurs.''

''Ew, chickens are so boring.''

''You've never seen a chicken in your entire life, Abraxas.''

''I know, but if I do I'm sure they'll be boring.''

''Swans are dinosaurs.''

''Are _pigeons_ dinosaurs?''

''And sparrows and ostriches.'' Hyperion regretted the last word the minute it left his mouth because he really didn't want to have to buy an ostrich.

Abraxas stared ahead and pointed to a white bird. ''Is that a dinosaur, too?''

''That's a peacock, son.'' Hyperion explained because it seemed that Abraxas really didn't know what it was. His life was sheltered.

''So, _not_ a dinosaur?''

''They all USED to be dinosaurs.''

In that moment a bunch of the peacocks came near the bars and began to caw. The white one lunged at Abraxas. Hyperion took out his wand to defend his son, even though he wasn't in danger because the bird looked like it wanted to be pet rather than feast upon his heir's flesh. Abraxas clapped and ruffled its feathers.

''Dad, dad, dad, dad, dad!''

''Yes?''

Abraxas pulled the white peacock through the bars. He wished for the bird very much and the bars turned just soft enough for the bird to wiggle out. ''DAD!''

''Yes, Abraxas?'' Hyperion watched and pride filled him up because his son was magic.

The bird was as tall as his son and Hyperion did not feel right with seeing it. He felt wary. It cawed and probably deafened his son. His son's silver eyes _shone_. He pointed to the bird, then hugged it, and looked at Hyperion. ''I want it for my birthday.''

Hyperion felt relief overwhelm him. He wouldn't need to succumb to necromancy. Just petty larceny. He grabbed his son who kept hold of his bird and then they disapparated back to Malfoy Manor.

Yvette looked at Hyperion, looked at Abraxas, and looked at the bird. She had a newspaper propped open on her lap and a scowl on her face that not being woken up properly brought. She narrowed her blue eyes and asked: ''Why is there a peacock here, Hyperion?''

''It's Abraxas' birthday present.''

Yvette shrugged and turned back to the newspaper. She flipped a few pages and then set the newspaper back down again to ask: ''How the FUCK-?''

''I'M NAMING IT FLOCON DE NEIGE BECAUSE HE'S THE PRETTIEST SNOWFLAKE I'VE EVER SEEN IN MY ENTIRE LIFE AND I WOULD DIE FOR THIS BIRD!'' Abraxas shouted abruptly, beaming at his mother for attention. Yvette just raised a half-hearted thumbs up, much alike a bewildered Caesar in a colosseum. Hyperion tried to hide a laugh, but his wife's expression drew one out of him nonetheless.

Flocon de Neige cawed.

* * *

Hyperion worried about his son. Abraxas saw magic as a chore and that was no way for a pureblood, swimming in magic and culture to view the gift they'd been given.

Yet he looked at his summer homework with disdain and didn't practise magic like he should. Now he sat at his desk and kicked his feet around, mindful not to hit any of his birds (there were five now and the collection was growing). Flocon de Neige nestled underneath the desk and cawed sleepily, nudging at a scowling Abraxas.

It was just before his third year and Abraxas thought that he'd chosen wrong subjects. ''They're just other things I'm going to fail at.'' His marks were staggering, which didn't necessarily mean he didn't know the material (his practical was always among the better part of the students, even sometimes rivalling that mudblood prodigy – Riddle, Hyperion thought, what a silly surname)

Abraxas' essays were always marked down and he'd lost interest in trying. Which brought Hyperion there with him then.

''Abraxas,'' his son lifted his head from the parchment rolls, ''why don't you tell me why you chose these subjects?'' Hyperion pointed to the parchment listing his son's electives.

Care for Magical Creatures was pretty self-explanatory as far as Hyperion was concerned. Ever since Yvette had murmured: Familiar: Abraxas had researched painstakingly about how to care for his peacocks and enchant them magically.

Abraxas shrugged. He said that it seemed like the practical mattered more. ''I need a high mark to pull my average up.''

''You don't need to think about marks.'' Hypeiron had told Abraxas many times of previous Malfoy's and how they hadn't cared for school and that they'd turned out fine. It was important to be educated. It was important to know things, not be able to reproduce knowledge for the sake of some test.

''Mère says otherwise, dad.'' Abraxas sighed. He looked older when he mentioned his mother than Hyperion had ever felt when thinking of his.

''I like my peacocks.''

'' _And_ the peahens I hope.''

''Of course, but they're very independent and don't follow me as much as the peacocks.''

Hyperion cracked an amused smile. Abraxas grinned up at him.

''What about this one?'' Hyperion wondered most about why his son had chosen Arithmancy.

''There's no essays. I _checked_.'' Abraxas explained, a world of frustration in his tone. ''I hear it's hard, but there's no essays so it's already better than ancient runes.''

''Divination?'' Hyperion figured that their fairy heritage might help Abraxas in seeing connections and grasping the future.

''Mère says it's stupid.''

Hyperion, an ardent believer in prophecies and finding the future fascinating, rolled his eyes. ''Your mother is not the smartest witch in the world, Abraxas, please remember this.''

''Yes, but she's still achieved more at my age than I ever will.''

''Listen to me.'' Hyperion grasped Abraxas' shoulder and didn't let go, not even when Abraxas' silver eyes fell on his: ''Overachievers like your mother, Abraxas, burn out much quicker than anyone else. They're lauded and considered geniuses whilst in a structured environment like school.'' Abraxas' face scrunched up funnily at that, ''Anywhere else they're like fish out of water. Do you think that … What's the best student's name? Riddle?''

''Tom Riddle.''

''Do you think Tom Riddle, a _mudblood_ without connections, can survive the outside world? You are brilliant, Abraxas. Do not hold out your torch to light a burned out one.''

''What?'' Abraxas asked, confused more than before.

''Don't make your life awful just to appease your mother.''

Abraxas' eyes widened. ''But!''

Hyperion amended: ''Don't disrespect her, of course. She is your mother. However,'' sternly he explained and was grateful that he had Abraxas' attention, ''never prefer the life of an overachiever. It is one that leads to disappointment and apathy. Just wait. Tom Riddle will become a nobody after school when marks won't matter.''

Abraxas felt like he could take down the entire world.

''Though, still, do your homework... don't just have Thoros write your essays. I'll write his father to put a stop to it.''

''Nooo.''

''Yees.''

''Dad, why are you mean to mee?''

Hyperion ruffled his son's hair, platinum like a Malfoy's, and winked: ''I believe in you.''

''Don't.'' Abraxas dejectedly said and buried his head in the parchment rolls. As far as Malfoys went, Hyperion hadn't seen a more dramatic Malfoy in ages. Not even his grandmother could rival.

''I'll buy you another peacock if you finish all of your homework by yourself~!''

Abraxas' eyes sparked. ''Really?''

''Really.''

''Really really, not just like how you promised to get me a dinosaur.''

Hyperion began to sweat again. ''Listen, son, what you wanted was a difficult gift to acquire.''

Abraxas snorted. ''I know.'' he smiled. ''That's why I asked for a peacock in the end.''

* * *

War struck France and Abraxas' maternal grandfather died. It was felt in the wards, set by the Mistress of the Manor. It was felt in the paintings dripping with sadness, the stairs creaking with subdued screams, the Frenchwoman holding a telegram with a steady hand as tears fell silently.

''Dad, what's wrong?'' Abraxas whispered to Hyperion. He was fifteen and didn't yet understand what grief could bring or what stress could push on others. War had avoided purebloods. It was **unfathomable** to kill a pureblood lord.

Hyperion told Abraxas to leave, to go to a friend's place. He slowly joined his mother and held her, whispering to her in French calmly, soothingly. The magical constraints, the darkness of her emotions, of her terrible shock lessened gradually. Hyperion plucked the letter from her hand and asked her to go to bed, to drink a calming draught and a dreamless sleep and that tomorrow would be easier to think.

Yvette Malfoy laughed and the magic doubled in anger, doubled in bemusement: ''Was he not here once, in his youth, when he was nothing?''

Abraxas blinked at his mother's frazzled words. Hyperion, though, seemed to freeze up.

''We showed him hospitality. YOU showed him hospitality. How did he repay you?'' Yvette snarled. ''You supported him and he killed your family. My father is your family, Hyperion. Don't you DARE pretend.'' Her shoulders shook. Her magic turned jagged and powerful and Hyperion told Abraxas to floo to the Notts.

Abraxas found his feet cut off by fear.

The air around him tensed. Hyperion moved to say something, but his mother drew her wand (bone and elm) and aimed at her father. ''Purebloods were supposed to be safe! What kind of barbarism have we stumbled into, Hyperion?'' She gasped between words, her face marred with tears and anguish.

Magic dissolved its wretched hold on the Malfoy lordling and he tried to bolt towards his father, but Hyperion placated Yvette: ''Ma chérie, s'il te plait, écoute-moi.''

''I don't understand!'' Yvette Malfoy was a prodigy from Beauxbatons, unrivalled. She didn't understand few things and when she didn't understand she hated. She hated her son whom she didn't understand, or rather refused to understand. She hated Grindelwald whom she and her husband had ardently supported in the beginning of his movement, and even hosted once back when For The Greater Good had been nothing but wistful thinking. When he'd brought along a filthy halfblood from a disgraced magical family to their party.

''Mère, s'il vous plait –'' Abraxas tried to summon some common sense in his mother, but to no avail.

She stopped speaking, stopped shaking. A calm overtook her like that before a storm. ''Why are you even here?''

''Yvette, for Merlin's sake!''

''No, no.'' Yvette didn't heed her husband's words. She approached Abraxas and curiously inquired: ''Why are you here? You're a child that's just in the way.''

''I'm practically an adult.'' Abraxas snorted, not knowing where he'd found the entitled bravery to talk back to his mother in such a state of unclear thinking. Hyperion drew his wand (cypress and unicorn hair) and cast expelliarmus, but his wife was quicker. His wife glared fiercely, evaded, and cast in French a spell that summoned her husband's wand to her hand. There were variations of spells in all languages. It was classical to use Latin and Greek, but some magical theories spoke of a way to use one's native tongue to pour more power.

''I was foolish to let you prance around. _You_ reflect your ancestors, Abraxas.'' Yvette continued. ''Have you no shame?''

''I don't see him as shameful.'' Hyperion interjected softly, but Yvette didn't hear him. Yvette only saw her son, her bane, her thorn, her one failure. Society wives tended to live through their children. Her wings had been clipped after Beauxbatons. She'd scored higher than anyone (though, in 1995 a girl named Fleur would score much higher and Abraxas would give her a stipend), but had been told to marry a Malfoy and that was what she did.

All right, Yvette had thought, parenthood was more challenging work. Much alike how all failed youthful endeavours or unmet potentials turned bitter parents into those kinds of parents that vicariously lived through their children – so Yvette had set to make Abraxas Hyperion Malfoy into the perfect heir. He would be better than her, smarter, sharper: a perfect Malfoy. He would be an heir worthy of his parents and his title.

''You reflect your parents, Abraxas.'' Yvette sneered and Abraxas shrunk into himself. She approached, taking heavy and decisive steps that echoed in the manor. ''Do you understand?''

''Yes.'' Abraxas whispered. Hyperion's hand on his shoulder was a small comfort. Children were like that, teenagers also. They sought the attention of the parent that would never give them that. It took years to become disillusioned enough to comprehend that they were much better off without such a burden.

Like a horse had its blinkers, so did Yvette have hers whenever looking at Abraxas. She could only see her utter disappointment. She was a selfish woman that cared more for her image than her only child's feelings.

How could Yvette Durant give birth to something that was worse than her lowest point? Oh she'd had quite a lot of ups and downs, the most notable down being sixteen and being told she had a French accent when she spoke English. For her, excelling was a matter of destruction, a matter of absolute dominance over everybody else that attempted to compete.

''You're worse, Abraxas,'' her accent had disappeared because she kept practicing and practicing and excelling and destroying, ''than that **mudblood**.''

''But, but, _mère_ , I scored higher in arithmancy–''

''Do you think I CARE?'' Yvette was one of those parents that when you told them that everybody got a lower score than you liked to remind you of that time when everyone had scored higher than you. ''It's a pureblood duty to keep _those_ kinds of people below so they are forced to go back to their world. There were mudbloods in Beauxbatons, but do you think I dared let _them_ beat **me**? Non, bien sur!''

Hyperion had nothing to say, because he agreed with her. Abraxas believed his parents to be right. Riddle being the best was wrong on so many accounts. His scores were unrivalled. He was the son Yvette had always dreamed of having and it decimated Abraxas' self-esteem.

''You sleep in the same dormitory as him and you're incapable of sabotaging him. Are you undeveloped, Abraxas? Are you truly that incompetent?'' Yvette flipped her wand and Hyperion took a slight step to shield Abraxas with his body. She noticed and called him out on it. He told her that this had gone on long enough and that they should retire.

''Step aside, Hyperion.'' Yvette aimed her wand at Abraxas. ''It's time I finally rectify this mistake.''

Abraxas couldn't breathe. Mutters scattered throughout the manor. Portraits watched keenly. The wards set by the Mistress could not be disputed. These were old laws drafted in old contracts that gave women in new homes a chance to protect themselves. None could harm the ward caster in their cast domain.

''Put the wand down, Yvette.''

''Fine.'' Yvette dropped hers. When it hit the ground it was with a finality that could bring nothing good. Yet Hyperion's wand her left hand continued to clutch.

Abraxas heaved a sigh, but Hyperion didn't. He went to accio hers while she still held his and then in that moment the prodigy struck.

Two words.

Abraxas screamed, overcome with absolute certainty that he would die. Too petrified by his own mother to think.

Green light.

Reflexes only a fairy blooded Malfoy could have. Hyperion pushed Abraxas out of the way, but the spell hit him square in the chest and all of the vibrancy and life from him simply left.

Hyperion crumbled to the ground.

Abraxas remained standing. He didn't know how or why, all he knew was that he still stood.

His mother screamed. She ran to her husband's side with tears in her eyes and love that Abraxas had never seen aimed at him. She cradled Hyperion in her hands, unbloodied, but her words tainted with toxicity and her magic forever ruined to her.

''No, no,'' she prayed to her gods and held her husband; a woman made in despair, orphaned and widowed. Abraxas didn't move. His legs felt cut off. His feet felt embedded with nails. His knees felt smashed in with a hammer.

''Look what you made me do!'' Yvette screamed at him in French. ''Look at what you made me do!''

''How did I do this…?''

''Can't you see that you only bring everyone sadness and disappointment!''

Abraxas looked at his mother and he saw, for the first time, drenched in clarity, a stained glass of an ideal he had created fall from the pedestal he had raised and shatter into a million lying pieces, finally, finally showing to him a monster.

''What have you to say for yourself?'' Yvette had Hyperion's wand. Yvette remained armed.

Abraxas bent down with lightning speed and picked her wand up from his father's warm corpse. His wand was traced, he was fifteen and going to fight against his own mother, primed to survive.

''You killed dad.'' It was the worst sentence Abraxas had ever been forced into saying.

''No, no, I didn't. You did! I should have killed you when you were a child. When we could have gotten away with it.'' Yvette rambled, her voice going higher and higher. Hysteria began to rear its ugly head and envelop her like a coat of second skin.

Abraxas' heart beat in a rhythm that would have sent someone muggle in the hospital. His magic finally awoke. His silver eyes glowed and he stepped back, frightened and threatened, and realizing, knowing that his mother would win in a duel.

Were he Tom Riddle, perhaps he could get a spell in, but Abraxas was not Tom Riddle, much to the disappointment of everyone.

Were Tom Riddle not a mudblood, Abraxas was certain she would have adopted him as an heir and charmed his hair platinum blond. But purebloods didn't adopt. They put too much value on blood.

''Put the wand down, Abraxas. It is bad manners to raise a wand to you own mother. What will you do if you kill me? Without me and your father you are friendless.'' Yvette said that everyone was only friends with him because of Hyperion's paying them; paying their parents, paying their parents' businesses.

''Wifeless.'' Yvette said that Walburga Black's father had only agreed to the betrothal back when he hadn't known what a complete disappointment Abraxas would become. Had become.

His form shook, but he refused to drop his wand because his own mother could cast that curse on him (and he would never forget that this unforgivable act had been aimed at him specifically)

''If you kill me you will be _motherless_.''

''Is that so wrong?'' Abraxas' voice cracked. No child should ever be forced into a situation where their parents' murder made for a better world to live in.

Yvette's magic burned. Abraxas' magic was like a tidal wave. He averted eye contact because it hurt to look into such darkness. He had liked his mother's eyes, a blue that lulled him to sleep, that was fine, that was cold. Now it only burned him like ice. 

''You tried to kill me.'' Abraxas didn't know why he could speak so freely, what had snapped into place for him that could help him stand upright. He didn't understand and when he didn't understand he was inquisitive and he asked until he got an answer. He thought and he solved whatever he couldn't understand. His mind was a mathematician's and his mother's was that of an economist weighing her options.

''I _made_ you, Abraxas. I am free to do with you as I see fit.''

Abraxas blinked. Tears had welled and begun to blind him. His body slowly began to weigh him down and stress gently seeped into his form, filling him up and constricting his thoughts.

''Put the wand down, mon fils.'' Yvette's tone switched to a kinder, soothing melody. Abraxas wished it was genuine, but he couldn't trust it. He refused to trust anything that came from his mother.

She took a few guarded steps forward and Abraxas aimed her own wand against her. ''Don't you dare.''

''Stop being impertinent, Abraxas. You are a child.''

''I am Lord Malfoy.'' Abraxas said, not looking at the previous Lord Malfoy's cooling body. ''If you hurt me you'll be killed or worse. I am Lord of a Sacred Twenty-Eight Family.'' Then with bile on his tongue he said. ''You've ensured my new position and immunity.''

Yvette pinched her lips together and waited. Then she frowned for thinking her son could ever impress her. ''And I am the Mistress of this Manor. Try to escape me.''

Abraxas didn't mention Hogwarts, having a sinking feeling in his gut that she would keep him home to torture him if he dropped it into this standoff.

Her face contorted disgustedly into a saccharine expression of motherly affection. It looked just as misplaced as when Walburga pretended to be nice to Tom Riddle in order to later humiliate him. Abraxas knew Walburga and he knew that there was not a single cruelty women were scared of doing. He had laughed joyously when Walburga manipulated others around her and pushed about the less than pure mages, but now that he felt manipulated, felt used, felt scared and frightened...

Abraxas Malfoy summoned just enough strength to say: ''Obscurio!''

He shrouded himself in silver smoke and started into a sprint towards the green floo powder kept on the fireplace mantle. It was near. It was near. It was nearer to _Yvette's_ side. She intercepted him knowingly, calling him predictable to a fault.

Abraxas had taken the powder, had halfway entered the fireplace, had had his hand outstretched to drop the powder into the fireplace and call out any place but Malfoy Manor when Yvette's petrificus totalus had hit.

She plucked her wand from his hand and bent to whisper in Abraxas' ear: ''See how, yet again, you lose and I win.'' He could feel her smile press against his skin. Then it fell, and her tone switched: ''Attempt this again and one of your birds dies, _Lord Malfoy_. I'll make you choose. Maybe this will finally teach you.''

Abraxas couldn't stop the tears that stung his wide open eyes. He couldn't close them, he couldn't move, and he couldn't breathe. Mon Merlin, Abraxas' magic flared in distress, he couldn't move enough to breathe.

It was evident that Yvette was aware of her actions and let him suffer while she said: ''Don't fight me, Abraxas. You will never be able to win.''

Abraxas pleaded in defeat for his mother to save him, and then realized what a stupid thing that was when it was his mother that had tried to kill him. So, he resigned himself to asphyxiation. He thought about what would happen to his peafowls, what his friends would think, what would happen to his mother, what would come after... _Was_ there an afterlife? Would he at least see his father then? Well, if he had to die, he'd have some peace, at least, from the nagging and the fear and the perfectionism.

''I forgive you.'' Yvette Malfoy said and released the spell, causing Abraxas to fall into the fireplace soot. She pulled him into a hug and cast a spell: ''Your father died of a heart attack. It was a muggle way to die, but it was the way he did because the stress of war had finally gotten to him. While I draw breath you are incapable of speaking about what actually happened.''

Abraxas hated. He hated with a passion that he had never before witnessed or thought could exist. It wouldn't be until 1956, when Yvette was poisoned, that Abraxas could tell anyone what had happened. He thought it was Tom Riddle that had liberated him, but Tom Riddle denied it. Abraxas chalked that up as him being afraid of being implicated in killing someone as important as the then Malfoy Matriarch.

* * *

The Forest whispered to Abraxas a melody, enchanting. He forced himself to stand. Electrical and earthy and fiery energy swirled. Rustles sounded behind him and he turned quickly, grasping hold of his willow wand and aiming aimlessly.

''Look, it is him!'' a voice said, stark and powerful and doubled and tripled and like an imperius curse put into song. ''Armand is grim!''

Abraxas' silver eyes widened.

The trees in the forest began to move. He deduced it was because of Samhain and didn't ask further questions. They disinterested him. Bark textures for skin. Eyes glistening like the moonlight not shining through the trees.

It was silver, identical, that stared into one another.

''Armand does not have our eyes.'' A different tree pointed with a tree branch for fingers: ''Or maybe he is in disguise.''

''Disguise of course.'' The first said. Its skin was like the wand in Abraxas' hand. He didn't speak. He moved though, slowly, fairly certain that he just needed to grab the diadem and flee for his life. Because to meddle with the Fair Folk on Samhain was not advisable. ''He is built like my Armand, built like a horse!''

Abraxas recounted Armand Malfoi (nicknamed so, and then anglicised to get rid of the foreigner's stigma). He'd met a fairy and bed her for an heir, claiming to bring magical strength and assurance that no Malfoy would turn into a squib. The fairy had allegedly strangled him in his sleep after his fifth child had been born, had torn out his body parts for safe keeps, and eaten his teeth for good luck.

''I am not Armand.''

''No, of course he is not.'' The second, clearer headed fairy spoke, ''he is product of your tied knot.''

A third fairy clambered from underneath the other two, emerging from the ground. It was a shrub. Abraxas tried to look for where the diadem was but couldn't find it. He began to sweat and regret his decision to celebrate Samhain. Why were the fairies at Hogwarts, he thought.

The first one, the first Lady Malfoy, cocked her head queerly and blinked: ''Who are you?''

Abraxas pretended to look around, hoping that he could avoid this. The third one stared peculiarly at him, gaze unfaltering.

''Yes, you, child drenched in blue!''

''It is Samhain, dear.'' The second one said. ''They have no cheer.''

''It is my Hyperion!'' the third pipped up finally: ''Still so Shakespearean!''

Abraxas squinted his eyes at this fairy and without their humanoid forms he couldn't decipher them. All of the Malfoys, creature, halfblood, or otherwise were afforded the same luxury purebloods were. Abraxas knew their human names, knew their humanoid portraits, but now in this light he could say nothing except: ''I am Malfoy.''

''So are we.'' the second grinned, teeth like sharp rocks, ''we merry three.''

''Come dance with us.'' the first beckoned and had she beckoned his ancestor like this before draining the life out of him? All Fairy Malfoys were of the Unseelie Court. Lovegoods had a mix. Ollivanders only interested the Seelie. ''Come now, come now,'' grabbed hold of his robe with twigs and pulled, ''do not make a fuss.''

Abraxas was exhausted from the memories, could feel his ancestor's magic and his father, but they had sent him the living relatives. Fairies lived in this forest before Salazar Slytherin had kindly proposed them an alternative.

The third one grabbed hold of a spider (acromantula) and gnawed on it deliciously. It would explain the rest of the forest. Those that dwelled in the forest before Hogwarts could remain, but anything that had come later would be destroyed.

''Why are you here?''

''Our King and Queen have been killed.'' the first explained, creasing his fabric and willing his obstinacy down. Abraxas refused to give out his name, not even to family, not until they were on equal footing and he knew what to call them. ''Faerie and Ironside's time is trying to be same. We are all so very, very thrilled. What is your name?''

Abraxas ignored this question because it would doom him. Do not eat their food. Do not drink their drinks. Do not give out your name. Do not be impolite. The four pillars of surviving Faerie.

''The royalty must be chosen now.'' second said and patted Abraxas on the head condescendingly: ''Don't let it furrow your brow.''

Abraxas' mind wheezed and inconveniently enough his sickness turned up. He couldn't stifle it with the horcrux' magic. Nor did he have his potions with him. _Well_. Well, if he had to pick a day to die, Samhain seemed a reasonable day.

''Let us see him dance!'' The first snarled and the forest grew silent because it was a willow tree that demanded. Hyperion used to tell Abraxas that willow trees had great problems and even greater strength. ''Give not-Armand a chance.''

The third opened up a hole from whence it had come and the first pulled Abraxas into it. The second simply followed after, leisurely.

It was Faerie. A land full of colour, smells that rivalled amortentia, food that was the greatest in all of the lands known to humankind. Arching mountains, littered with trees whose tops drenched in purple hues, yellow hues, green hues, silver hues, and many more but Abraxas, being more human than fairy, could not differentiate between them.

Abraxas finally turned towards his captors and found them more appropriately dressed in their humanoid skins.

The first, the one still holding onto him, had his hair, long and platinum. It was not Malfoy hair (it was, but it had been hers _first_ ). They had all inherited it. He recognized her as Griselda Malfoy. She had seduced Armand Malfoi and buried her image in all of his offspring, claiming this line as hers.

The second fairy that had arrived was the next one he recognized because this portrait was just across from his room from boyhood. Tall and exceptional and silent. All of the portraits in Malfoy Manor were silenced. Though, the fairy portraits never spoke. It was some unspoken rule.

Ferand Malfoy had silver eyes like all of the fairies, but had the smooth and clear skin of a Malfoy. ''You know, I gave your family luck.'' He spoke, then corrected: ''Our family, all of them so thunderstruck.''

He had sired Malfoy heirs during the renaissance period, if Abraxas remembered his ancestor's lives correctly. Wilhelmina Malfoy had danced with a fairy gentleman and decided to marry him without consulting his fairy brethren and sisters. Wilhelmina Malfoy died a horrible death, bleeding out through her feet as Ferand made her dance with him until death did them apart. Their children grew to be very boring. One even chose to live as a muggle, being sculpted by Michelangelo for his exquisite beauty.

The third one Abraxas didn't recognize. He couldn't recall if he'd ever seen her portrait. Her hair was auburn and her eyes were silver, but there was something familiar about her that he couldn't shake:

''My good Hyperion! My grand Hyperion!''

''I am not Hyperion Malfoy.'' Abraxas knew there was only one Hyperion in the family as there was only one Abraxas in the family. They were unique and could forge their own history.

She stopped speaking and looked. It felt as if she looked directly into his soul.

Ferand and Griselda ushered them down paths taken by all of the fey, but the third kept staring.

Abraxas smiled with crooked teeth and a gasp escaped the third.

Griselda and Ferand observed and didn't involve themselves.

''It is the peacock!''

''Is it really the peacock?'' Ferand grabbed hold of Abraxas and turned him over. ''Hyperion's peacock? He spoke of you. Told us you were true.''

''My Hyperion's peacocks is grown!'' the third one spoke and hugged Abraxas tightly, crying into his robe, ''I almost had you thrown.''

''What in Merlin's name do you mean by _thrown_?!'' Abraxas, alerted now of the danger he found himself in, began to question hurriedly.

Griselda's claws ran through Abraxas' hair and she cooed sweetly at him: ''Aww, look at the struggling _baby_. Sweetest offspring I've ever made, may be!''

The fairies ignored him and danced now in his presence. Arching in positions no human could, chanting gleefully, and shifting magic in their forms to light the world around them.

''Who are you?'' Abraxas shouted at the third fairy and she kissed his nose and giddily answered: ''I'm Hyperion's creator's creator.''

Which was fancy talk for grandmother.

Artemis Malfoy. She'd disappeared once Abraxas was born, there was a portrait of her holding him as a baby, next to her was Hyperion. Yvette had burned all of the portraits depicting Hyperion after he'd died in an all-consuming rage of guilt.

Abraxas Malfoy blinked owlishly. ''Great-grandmother?''

''Why is _she_ so great?'' Griselda demanded to be addressed properly, with the greatest honour.

Abraxas tried to count back how many greats Armand Malfoy deserved. It was a lot. He called her great-...-great-grandmother. Ferand took offence for being second class then and threatened Abraxas.

''I can't make up the rules – blame language structure!''

The fairies hissed and vowed to assassinate the English language for being so unfair. They all wanted to be equally great and this was blatant favouritism for Griselda.

Artemis latched herself onto Abraxas and he felt so off kilter to have older family.

''How is Hyperion?''

''Well.'' Abraxas said.

''How is the wife of Hyperion?''

Abraxas closed his eyes and sighed: ''Well.''


	21. November Nightmare II

Tom Riddle didn't like being ignored. In fact, he absolutely abhorred being ignored.

It was two weeks since he'd sent Merrythought a letter telling her where Herpo the Foul was and that when convenient she could write him and they would go find him together.

Two weeks had passed without a word!

Zorka lazed uncaringly in the cabin and sipped along a drink she told him was calming draught. A goofy smile was on her face as she stared through him. ''Have some, it'll make you feel better.''

''The day I depend on potions and drugs is the day I die.'' Voldemort sneered and moved angrily towards Hermione's room to wake her up. It was ten already. She was usually up by nine. They had work to do. Magic to learn. Voldemort fingered his wand and itched for a duel. Zora seemed in no state to duel him. Not that she could put up much of a fight without a wand. Wandless duelling was all over the place. There was no structure. No guidance. No rules.

Tom Marvolo Riddle thrived in a structured environment. Except the world was hardly as structured as a thousand year old structure.

He knocked on Hermione's door and heard her scream. Then his polite knocking turned slightly more frantic. The door swung open and Nagini laughed as she slithered out of Hermione's room.

Tom called her a menace and she hissed back calling herself bored out of her mind.

Hermione had her wand aimed at Tom Riddle.

''Hermione, put the wand down.''

''How long have you had this snake?''

''What?''

''How long have you had Nagini?''

''Since I was thirty. What relevance does this have to your screaming bloody murder this fine morning?''

There was something in Hermione's eyes that made Tom Riddle stop speaking. He could not access her mind without her consent because of the contract. Yet there was something in the way she looked at him that had his brain wondering.

Papers scattered throughout her room and Tom Riddle picked up a Prophet dating back to the 1960s. He saw himself with Mandy Sullivan and Nobby Leach. It was an article about muggleborn Hogwarts alumni. Leach was in the middle. Called the next great politician. Mandy Sullivan had been Head Girl to Tom's Head Boy and she'd built a whole branch of muggle inspired healing techniques in St. Mungo's. If Tom Riddle had to describe Mandy Sullivan he'd use one word: competent. Then he'd add: _discreet_ , because she had been his healer during the War.

About Tom Riddle the article wrote prodigy and trailed off about his travelling and learning obscure things. It seemed that the journalist (Richard Skeeter, bane of Voldemort's existence) had felt second-hand embarrassment about Tom's working in Borgin and Burke's. The only one that wasn't embarrassed about Tom Riddle working in Borgin and Burke's was Tom Riddle himself.

''Why do you have this?'' He found another paper and another and there was one where Abraxas Malfoy twitched, his eyes wide and his pupils shot like that of a cocaine addict. Tom looked into them and wished that he'd been just a tad more controlling during that period of their lives, that maybe he could have put a stop to that addiction before it had corroded Abraxas' clear judgement.

Leach could have lived. Or maybe he couldn't have. Maybe that _was_ a fixed point in time. Tom Riddle had dissected so many time travelling books from 1968 to 1970, failed, and given up.

''I'm interested in history.'' Hermione's voice was cool. Tom Riddle detested people lying to him, especially when he was uncertain if they did or did not. In moments like these he truly despised how much he depended on legilimency.

''Why?''

''I want to be Minister for Magic.'' Hermione Granger said and Tom Riddle didn't recoil, per se, but this was painful. His soul shirked into itself.

''And, sir, you're _American_. You said so yourself that you don't care about Voldemort matters. Being muggleborn and wanting to be Minister for Magic is apparently a very deadly position.'' Hermione explained and there was a hint of patronization in her tone that Tom Riddle felt oddly amused by.

Once he put down the newspaper articles depicting Leach he decided to move and call Hermione to come downstairs. He didn't ask about the newspaper article she gripped closely to her chest. It seemed like too much effort and this had exhausted him.

Hermione said she'd be down in a few minutes.

In her hand was a photograph of Lord Voldemort with a snake pretending to be a long scarf. It was 1975 and if Hermione could be bold enough to say: the snake looked identical to the one her mentor paraded around as his familiar.

She dressed and went down the stairs. Zorka was gone to mind her shop. Montgomery stretched on his toes to get something from a high shelf in his kitchen. Nagini hissed at him. He hissed back in aggravation. Once he took a jar filled with purple liquid he picked up Nagini and carried her.

Hermione felt like she was onto something, but wasn't stupid enough to write a letter to the Order. If she was wrong she would be humiliated. No, Hermione needed to have _all of the facts_ first.

She would write Narcissa Malfoy, asking her for something of Voldemort's. Abraxas Malfoy was a sentimental man that kept mementos dipped in magic. Magic lingered. There were spells about that sort of thing. She'd read about them during school.

''Sir, do you know anything about spells that reveal another's magic?''

''There are a lot of spells like that.'' Her mentor said absentmindedly, petting Nagini. ''Give me more information.''

''Like,'' Hermione didn't know how to phrase this precisely, ''you know how when someone goes missing, they get something of the person's to give to a hound to smell? I was thinking if there was a spell similar to that.''

''There _are_ bloodhounds. Vampires can control them. I could write Lena.'' He stopped petting Nagini and the snake hissed. He resumed.

''No, I meant more if I could get a person's garment or whatever had their magic and then when I cast a spell on it I would be able to find that person.''

''I may know a spell like that,'' then Montgomery came to a conclusion for Hermione, giving her a perfect out, ''this is about Draco Malfoy, isn't it?''

''Oh yes.'' Hermione averted her gaze and she didn't have to pretend to be sad about her friend still missing, ''I'd like to help find him. I was curious if there was a way to track a person by having something of theirs.''

''You can.'' Her mentor affirmed and Hermione's brows shot up. ''But it works only on close proximity.''

''How close?''

''I think it could cover a few kilometres, but that's the extent of it.''

''I'd still like to learn it, if it's not a problem with your curriculum, sir.''

Montgomery shrugged and beckoned her closer. Nagini hissed and Montgomery chided her for being in a teasing mood. ''Don't mind Nagini, she's cranky.''

Crookshanks liked Nagini and the two would often sleep together, curled in balls of orange and green. Hermione found it odd, but Nagini liked her cat and didn't want to eat him, which was more than she could hope for.

So, Montgomery Goldsmith taught Hermione the location spell in a comprehensive manner. They took things that Hermione said Zorka liked to use (an orange mug where she poured rakija in and drank it like water when she was very sad). Montgomery taught the incantation. Hermione repeated it and cast on the mug. It glowed, saying that the owner of the magic used to be close.

''Next you need to manipulate the way the spell is going to relay to you information. This is useless information. You know Zorka was here, but you're curious as to where she is right now. How close she is, et cetera. This is a directional rune you're going to paint on the object.'' Montgomery took out his wand and painted the rune on the mug. Hermione's wand glowed differently, now making a glowing arrow in the direction where Zorka's shop lay.

''How about for distance?''

''Ask the rune.''

''Ask the rune?'' Hermione snorted in disbelief. Montgomery nodded firmly.

''It's magic, Hermione. Magic has to be respected.''

''How far is Zorka?'' Hermione asked and in her mind flashed 200m. She exclaimed: ''Whoa!''

''It should cover up to three km.'' Montgomery made an iffy gesture with his hand, ''Give or take.''

Hermione thanked her mentor and when he told her to go fetch him some ingredients she obliged happily. Already, in her mind, she crafted a letter for Narcissa.

Dear Lady Malfoy,

I apologise for writing to you in this trying period. My thoughts are with you and your family. I hope Draco is found soon. Thank you for your gift it is lovely. (Hermione had finally gotten around to opening her presents and they'd mostly all been books, it seemed that her friends finally learned not to get her knick knacks).

My request may seem strange, but it would help me immensely if you do not discard it as a young girl's whim. I am doing research into magical signatures with my mentor, Montgomery Goldsmith, and if you could procure me an item with Voldemort's magical signature it would be an amazing learning experience. I would ask Abraxas, but he is busy with term.

Thank you in advance.

Hermione Granger.

* * *

What would one do to protect the love of their life?

Beatrice Merrythought had gone against the Unseelie Queen, had made her amused, and bartered her life in exchange for Galatea's. Galatea, of course, would destroy heaven and earth to get Beatrice out of any situation of peril – so, she needed to think Beatrice had chosen this life over the one she had with her.

She'd tossed her black hair, made up then in small dreads, and smiled a lovesick smile, shrugging awkwardly and saying: ''Galatea, no offence, but it's the Unseelie QUEEN.''

Galatea looked at her, heartbroken. Her wedding ring glowed and her eyes were red like her hair. Beatrice felt awful, but she would rather sacrifice herself than see Galatea ruin herself in Faerie.

''If you're sure…'' Galatea's voice broke, but she vowed to respect Beatrice's decision. Beatrice held Galatea's hand tightly in hers and wanted to back out and run, but the Unseelie Queen could not be beaten so easily. She was liked by the queen and she could live. Galatea was disliked and needed to leave.

''Of course I'm sure. You won't understand.'' her tone was colder than it needed to be, her Galatea's face looked more crushed than Beatrice had ever thought she'd see, and the deal was set.

The Unseelie Queen emerged from a tree after Galatea had left. She patted Beatrice on the head like one would their pet, and crooned: ''Good work, Beatrice Merrythought. Remember: no treasonous thought.''

Beatrice nodded. Life could be manageable. She clenched her hands into fists and forced a smile to her lips because fairies loved seeing their toys smiling. ''Of course, glorious queen.''

Life was honestly fine. The queen would kiss Beatrice and call her sweet things while feeding her even sweeter things. Fairy food travelled down her throat, bringing her both bliss and bile. Her eyes glowed and when the queen whispered: ''You are mine,'' Beatrice wished that she was. ‘’All is now fine.’’

They danced until Beatrice's feet bled and bone showed, but Beatrice was too happy to fight. The queen kept her occupied with chansons written and performed by stolen musicians. Through delirium Beatrice saw their fingers bleeding as they played their string instruments, their faces covered in tears, but she could only laugh in their misery because that was what the queen wanted. It felt so good not to think. It felt good to drink their elixirs and be one of their valued humans.

Then, like a trophy, Beatrice was stolen by the Seelie King to spite the Unseelie Queen. Her food was replaced by human food and it tasted disgusting, until it became familiar enough to like.

Beatrice met the Seelie King then. He wore a crown on his head made of thorns and had silver eyes like all of the Fair Folk. Except when he grinned at her it wasn't nearly as sharp a smile as the Unseelie Queen had. It was fae nonetheless and Beatrice was wise to remember that no fairy could be trusted.

''What do you want with me?''

''You will be returned. This was not a prank pulled.''

''No?''

The king nodded. ''You're going to help me gain power.''

''Power?''

''You, Beatrice Merrythought, will go to her tower.''

''And?''

''Like a human you will slay her and hand me her crown.''

Beatrice thought this nonsense. As if a human could kill a king or queen of Faerie. Surely they were more powerful.

''The only way for a fairy to die is to drown.''

Fairies were ageless, but salt water could harm them, as could iron. Beatrice could take an iron forged sword and fight, but she would lose. Concentrating on her fingertips she summoned water. Aguamenti. A first year spell at Hogwarts. It seemed too easy. It couldn't be. Beatrice was afraid of what failure would bring. She was a very salty individual and therefore had an unlimited supply of salt to conjure into the water.

''Will you accept?''

Beatrice remained silent.

''You are adept.''

It was high praise coming from a being that could, if it wanted to, topple much more adept wizards and witches. But they weren't liked by the Unseelie Queen, were they?

In the end Beatrice realised that she was being played. The king was only interested in more power. These were battles over land that she wanted nothing to do with. So, like a dutiful toy, after the queen had hugged her and asked where she'd gone, Beatrice told the queen everything.

Ire bubbled under her bark like skin. Her legs made of roots advanced and lashed out at the castle forged from rock. She went to the Seelie King, taking Beatrice with her.

Beatrice would never forget the way an ageless being crumbled, the way the whole floor of the Seelie King's courtroom was coated with blood. It was not like human blood. The consistency was different. The smell was not full of iron because there was no iron in fairy blood, as iron was another thing that harmed them. Beatrice's hands were clean. She tottered towards the exhausted Unseelie Queen and praised her: ''Glorious queen, you have done wondrous things. I have never before seen such might and valour. This is beyond anything I have ever dreamt. I am happy to be in your presence.''

''Beatrice Merrythought, you have done something very sordid. Do not fret, for your loyalty shall be rewarded.'' The Unseelie Queen freed her of her bonds. Their agreement about no more treasonous thoughts was over. Beatrice was nervous as she approached closer, sweat coated her palms, as did spit accumulate in her mouth. She smiled nonetheless and came closer, closer. The Unseelie Queen forced her into an open mouthed kiss and that was when Beatrice cast aguamenti.

Her sweat turned to salt water and she held the lashing, exhausted queen tightly. Her spit turned like acid to the queen, but Beatrice now knew escape was just at her fingertips.

The Queen screamed into Beatrice's mouth, biting her lips off and drawing iron filled blood to cause her even more anguish. Her fingers conjured more and more water and the queen melted right underneath her. Beatrice, overcome with confusion and magical strain, fell to her knees and drenched her hands in fairy blood.

To do magic in Faerie was much easier than outside. Because the whole world was made of heightened magic. Conjuring up parchment was easy, writing with fairy blood was less easy.

Beatrice Merrythought begged for her wife's help. She looked at her blood coated hands and cried.

* * *

Weeks passed. November was nearly over.

Lucius struggled to keep his mind at peace. Not only was his son missing, but so was his father. Antoinette Mercier and Lilith Selwyn were called in to help. Antoinette said good riddance to Abraxas, but helped in whatever needed managing for Draco's search party. Lilith was there for Lucius who was slowly becoming a failed politician. He had lost the Ministry election and blamed the world's unforgiving nature on it. He'd clawed at his Dark Mark fruitlessly trying to peel it off and wished that his family was well wherever it was.

Narcissa found a purple robe too plain for Abraxas Malfoy in his wardrobe and sent it to Hermione. She had her suspicions that this was Order business, but shut her mouth and did as asked.

* * *

Alexio remembered that he hadn't sent a ransom letter and finally sent it. The snakes jeered at him. It was cold and he called Death his favourite observer. ''O Death, my beautiful temptress, I love you with my heart if not my whole soul! I know I am your favourite, for I am the only one you cannot take.''

* * *

The diadem waited. Rowena Ravenclaw talked to Lord Voldemort.

''I bet he's dead.''

''I need him alive to kill that damned headmaster.''

''I bet he's _so_ dead.''

''I didn't think you'd be like this, Ravenclaw.''

''I didn't think my diadem would ever be dared tampered with like this, but here we are, Voldemort.''

''Fair.''

* * *

Severus Snape and Minerva McGonagall covered DADA on shifts when they could. Minerva pressed her lips into thin lines and asked Albus if he knew what had happened to Abraxas. Albus didn't know.

''I know odd things happen on Samhain, Minerva, but I do not know what exactly befell him.''

''Was he bloody taken by fairies?''

Albus raised his brows. ''I wouldn't be surprised.''

Severus went to the Order on business and when he'd mentioned that Abraxas Malfoy was missing, Moody instantly exclaimed: ''He's gone and found Voldemort! Those two lovebirds have reunited and are plotting against us. We need to make a move! Constant vigilance!''

Walburga Black's portrait narrowed her eyes at this display of paranoia and balked at her home's occupants. She glared at her son and hissed: ''These are the people you let into our home? Be ashamed of yourself.''

Sirius shrugged, not caring.

''Speak, Black, where would Malfoy go?'' Moody had a personal vendetta against Abraxas and waited, eagerly, to bust him on something. If he colluded with Voldemort it would bring him close to seeing him carted off to Azkaban.

Walburga Black laughed in his face and then spoke: ''You think I would dare reveal a Sacred Twenty Eight?''

She lied because she didn't know, but a lady was taught to never reveal one's ignorance. And she relished, also, in the way Moody's eyes spun angrily. When one was a portrait their entertainment was limited. But before the imperius could be attempted on her portrait, Walburga left her portrait again. Moody called her names. Only trapped people resorted to name calling.

* * *

''Are you a good seer? What do you do? Do you make runes rue? Do you make others fear?'' Griselda kept asking for information on her youngest offspring. They traversed through woods and avoided other fairies because this was their bit of fun. They hadn't been on their ancestral land since that hideous, gaudy structure had been erected in the 10th century. Now that both the King and Queen had died they needn't uphold their deals anymore.

If there was such a thing as order in Faerie, with the dead of their sovereigns it would collapse into anarchy.

Ferand asked the peacock things now and he seemed less intimidated. ''What about equations? Do you see occasions?''

Artemis, though, wept in his shoulder when the peacock had said how Hyperion had fallen.

''Did you kill her? That filthy saboteur!''

The peacock shook his head no and said that she'd died of an illness like he was being torn apart now. Next they asked him about the illness and he divulged pieces of betrayal and misunderstandings and –

''I shall destroy this idiotic Riddle. To think to play a Malfoy like a fiddle!'' Artemis cursed. Griselda grinned, her eyes gleaming with carnage. Ferand's lips quirked upward gracefully.

''I shall find him for you and I shall make for you a most splendiferous view!''

''He's dead.''

''I shall bring him back. Then break his back! Then devour his heart. Make his carrion into art.''

''You smell of his magic.'' Ferand said, ''It is quite tragic.''

''Magic doesn't live on like this.'' Griselda said, remembering smelling the peacock like an object discarded in the forest. ''Not when its caster's in abyss.''

''Portraits carry magic.''

''Portraits are fairy gift.'' Artemis explained, calming down and coming to conclusions that her peacock did not like. ''You smell of a magical rift.''

''Rift?'' the peacock squeaked. Hyperion told them of his heir's connection with numbers and his gift with animals. Perfectly fine and respected fairy traits. It was not prophetic, but it was just enough not to be disrespected in Faerie.

''Magical rift angers Death.'' Artemis said, tone sad.

''She will take your breath.'' Ferand said, apathetically.

''You smell of death.'' Griselda said, sniffing him.

The peacock rolled silver eyes and said ungratefully, impolite in his dying age: ''Oh, I'd prefer it if we could avoid Divination. It's a crackpot's trade anyhow.''

''Let me make prediction.'' Griselda said, mostly eager to prove this Malfoy wrong. Malfoys were brought up on tales of Faerie and they knew that divination had base in fact. The only seers that could be considered true were from Faerie.

''Divination is not fiction.'' Ferand hissed, grabbing the peacock and sinking his claws into Malfoy flesh.

Artemis called out, picking leaves from nearby trees and flicking the peacock's face with them. ''See, you have affliction.'' She pointed to leaves. Griselda leaned forward and nodded. The peacock was confused so Ferand explained.

''Faerie senses all anomalies. They are like comedies.'' Fairies had the worst kind of humour.

Artemis exclaimed, arms up in the air, she threw the leaves: ''Death will come to you.''

''Death will come _for_ you.'' Griselda mused aloud.

Ferand picked up the leaves and inspected them. ''Sooner than you think.''

''You fancy a drink?'' Artemis conjured sugary water. It was an attempt of entrapment. Artemis was fond of her great-grandson and wished him with her. She did not know his name. She could not control him, but he would tell her soon. Her or Ferand or Griselda.

The peacock laughed and pretended it was all a game. Because he still held disbelief in his heart. Artemis would tear it out. Ferand would destroy it under his heel. Griselda would plant belief in her offspring's mind.

''What is it about divination that you do not understand?'' Griselda asked.

''It is imprecise and stupid.'' came the response. ''It cannot be held to regulations as Arithmancy can.''

''Do you think that life is simply one dreamland? It is your kind that makes rules. They are, honestly, for fools.'' Griselda reasoned and the fairies nodded.

Their heir snorted.

Artemis picked up the leaves from the ground and handed them to the heir. He examined them without much care and coughed into his sleeve, bloody spittle causing Artemis to shy away. Iron was in their blood. Iron burned like sun to vampire kind.

''What am I to do with these leaves?''

''Look.'' all three said and guided him to understand. The leaves were unbroken and picked from a tree in Faerie, charged with magic more intense than any in the human world. Residue magic was Seer's magic. It spilt over from Faerie and gave choice individuals the Sight. It was completely random, unless one had fey relations. Then it was logical.

The Malfoy looked. His shoulders tensed after seconds passed and frustration overcame him. ''This is idiotic and a waste of my time. Point me in the direction of Hogwarts or any path to the human world and let us be done with this.''

Griselda instantly denied him. Ferand seconded her. Artemis shrugged.

''We have until Royalty is chosen to teach you.''

''I haven't a good track record with learning things.''

Before their reply could be said they'd reached a clearing in the Forest where pandemonium struck. Charged magic from wands flew in attack. Shrill screams pierced through the air.

''Professor?!'' The heir exclaimed and jumped into a sprint towards the attackers. Griselda took offence because she remembered a different time where no human would dare do such a thing. These ones were emboldened with power that was Faerie's gift to them.

The Unseelie's Toy had taken a twig from a tree without permission and willed her magic on it. She crossed her wand with the one her heir had called Professor. They regarded each other with brazen fondness and once their gazes shifted so did their magic turn hot. From the tip of theirs wands shot fire.

Griselda, Ferand, and Artemis lunged for cover because they were Malfoys and all Malfoys cared for was saving their own arse.

* * *

Retching screams, trees burning, and death formed a beautiful sight of destruction.

Abraxas saw Professor Merrythought wielding a wand like it could topple civilizations just by her own incantation. He saw ire in her eyes and fire from her wand that accented the red left in her silver hair. Two women were side by side, keeping the professor in the middle.

He conjured a shield of water, always remembering how he had mastered water and ice to keep Tom's more destructive outbursts at bay. They had both tempered each other. Evaporating floods and extinguishing fires.

''Professor! It's me!'' He still didn't say his name, knowingly.

He watched out for falling debris, trees keeling over, everything falling apart.

''You have stolen me to be your plaything.'' Merrythought ignored Abraxas, speaking to the fairies that were left listening. A being stood among the scrambling fairies and regarded Merrythought deeply. Abraxas swore that from one angle it looked like his father, but he had to remind himself of it being Samhain. That Samhain was a day when strange things happened: like seeing your professor from school staging a fairy massacre.

''You have traumatized my wife.'' With her free hand Merrythought held a dark skinned woman's hand.

A third woman wielded an axe and swung whenever something attempted attack. Though, most of the fairies had learned to run in the opposite direction. Abraxas liked her flannel robe. Then she bared her vampire teeth and just like that he disliked liking a vampire's style of dress. Muggleborns he was learning to tolerate in a slow but sure pace. Vampires were absolutely beneath mage kind.

''Hey, he has silver eyes!'' The vampire said and pointed her axe at Abraxas. ''Burn him.''

Merrythought whirled on her heel, having finished decimating her portion of land, and balked. **_''Mr. Malfoy, is that you?''_**

 ** _''Professor!''_** Abraxas pleaded for help. He was weak. Fiendfyre kept eating at his shield. His illness attacked his magic and punished him for using it (it was easier to tap into magic when he was in a world made by it in its entirety, yet Tom Riddle's hatred transcended it all)

''Wait, _Tom's_ Malfoy?'' the vampire asked, lowering her axe and scrutinizing him like a parent would their child’s date.

''Tom like That Lad's Going To Have A Terrible Time Outside Hogwarts _Tom_?'' Merrythought's wife asked. Apparently Tom Riddle had been brought up many a time among these women.

''Yes,'' Abraxas exclaimed because his shield was cracking and the fiendfyre was crawling slowly towards him. Merrythought summoned it back into her wand with an expert flick.

''Sorry about that, Malfoy.''

The shield collapsed into itself. ''No worries.'' Abraxas said and barely remained standing. He had to, and this pained him, rely on a vampire's help. His knees were weak and his legs shook. His eyes closed and he breathed heavily, wearily.

The Malfoy fairies had fled and it was better that they had. Humans would aid him.

''Galatea Merrythought.'' A voice, garbled like a scratched record, addressed Abraxas' professor. He opened his eyes and saw the vampire holding onto him nearly drop him to wield her axe in retaliation. Merrythought's wife held Galatea and didn't dare let go.

''Aye, that's me.'' Galatea Merrythought was unafraid. Not when she was surrounded by loved ones and a student that had been average in her class. Being average in her class meant that he could definitely hold his own.

''Your existence is disrespectful.'' the voice cooled like **ice**. Abraxas looked and he saw Hyperion standing amidst ash and fairy blood, confident and immune to all destructive attempts. It couldn't be Hyperion, of course. This much Abraxas was aware. Yet the presence unnerved him. It was as if the epicentre of the cold had finally revealed itself.

''Your appearance is even more.'' Merrythought sneered at the being, fists clenched. Abraxas had a sinking feeling pooling in his stomach that this was not a fairy. That this was something that transcended them all.

''It is your mind that conjures my appearance.'' the voice smiled. Hyperion cocked his head to the aside and it was not Hyperion. Abraxas couldn't tear his eyes away from the being. His father had died so young. The being looked identical to how Abraxas had last seen Hyperion. He looked to be around Lucius’ age.

Hyperion looked downward, not at his feet, but neither in Merrythought's eyes. Abraxas followed the line and saw that the being looked directly at Merrythought's wedding ring.

''This is your only warning. Given your circumstances I shall be lenient.''

Merrythought looked at her wedding ring and snapped up her gaze to the being in rapid speed. ''I didn't ask for this.''

The being nodded slowly. Then pointed at each individual: ''Beatrice Merrythought, Galatea Merrythought, Lena Ajeti, and Abraxas Malfoy – you have aided and made fairy massacre. This is not my jurisdiction to deal out punishment. However, I can detain you until judgement is passed by the next King and Queen.''

''Well...guess it's time to die.'' Lena whispered like someone who knew their death was inevitable and had come to terms with it. Beatrice inhaled sharply. Merrythought snorted and said that the being wouldn't, though. Else it would have done so by now. Abraxas could not fault such reasoning. He leaned on a tree and leeched its life force, combining it with his. Existing was so easy in Faerie. He thought about staying, but it would all be fruitless dreaming. It was easy to run from his problems like how he'd been shipped off to New Zealand for rehab and later avoided ever talking about Nobby Leach with Tom Riddle. Ever avoided talking about the 1960s with Tom Riddle.

It was so easy to run.

It took strength to choose to face his problems.

''But I am amused by your show today.'' the being snapped its fingers and a portal appeared between it and them. ''This will take you where you feel you need to be.''

''What's the catch?'' Beatrice asked.

''Never come back here.''

''Fair enough.'' Lena said and ushered all of them through the portal, thanking the being politely.

The being's gaze lingered on Abraxas and silver eyes that weren't his father's squinted. Then, the being spoke: ‘’We shall meet soon, Abraxas Hyperion Malfoy.’’

With such terrifying words to look forward to, Abraxas was spat out at Hogwarts.

Lena and the Merrythoughts landed back in Albania. Galatea read the letter her student had sent her. Beatrice and Lena regarded each other awkwardly, not knowing which of them would hold Galatea's fancy.

Abraxas Malfoy collected the diadem from the Forest, was told off by both a peeved Ravenclaw and an annoyed Voldemort. He apologized. Rowena Ravenclaw's voice pierced his thoughts and called him unwise and that what Voldemort wanted of him was not going to work. Voldemort then fought and said that Abraxas should not listen to Ravenclaw and that for all of her infinite wisdom and knowledge she sure was victorious, trapped as she was in an object. To which Ravenclaw replied that she had chosen for her wisdom to be in an object, that she had not been discarded by one's own self into an object, all for some immortal goal that had ruined him.

_I tell you now as I told the original: creating horcruxes is a task done solely by fools. It not only angers Death, but it also makes sure your mind rots._

Abraxas thought that all of this was too much for his head. He hurried his step to get to the chamber. They'd lost too much time. It was December, both Voldemort and Ravenclaw said. It was going to be Yule soon and he needed to set the plan into motion. A plan he had put off and off and now it was suddenly a month later and he was unprepared. Voldemort seethed and it was with good right.

He could feel Voldemort taking control only so the sibilant hiss sounded and the Chamber of Secrets opened for Abraxas.

''I still can't believe you just slid down a slide.''

''I was a child. Children enjoy fun.''

''You were an angsty teenager.''

''Angsty teenagers can have fun, too.''

Abraxas slid down the slide and was spat out in the centre of the Chamber. Beatrice's eyes were closed, but she still made a show of nudging her snout at him. He pet her and called her nice names, earning a happy hiss from her. Much nicer snake than Nagini. Though, Nagini was intelligent enough to be spiteful and knew when someone was talking shite about her behind her back. Tom Riddle had found her in 1956 when he, Antoinette, Lilith, and Abraxas had gone on a trip to Egypt. It was supposed to be the closest thing to a couples' retreat, but Tom Riddle found a snake to pamper; Lilith got lost in the pyramids; Antoinette insulted an animagus camel; and Abraxas got sunburned.

Voldemort hissed through him. They would strike soon. It was December 24th and it was much too late to turn back. This last part was directed at Abraxas. Ravenclaw told him it wasn't too late to turn back, that all he needed to do was throw away the diadem and live his life.

'' _Be wise, Abraxas Malfoy!''_

''Be smart, Abbie!'' Voldemort crooned in his ear. Ghostly touches caressed Abraxas' cheek and he melted in the touch, exhausted, so exhausted. Water dripped from the girl's lavatory stationed above.

''I can save you. I can help undo what should never have been done to you.'' The horcrux purred in his ear and Abraxas felt hot breath on his ear and flesh press against him from behind.

 _He can use you until he has a corporeal form. This is a shadow of a man you loved. Remember what you are listening to._ Ravenclaw's wisdom ran through the air like a hit cymbal. _He only desires to kill the headmaster. Your life is trivial._

''Such **slander** , Lady Ravenclaw.'' If Abraxas hadn't known Tom Riddle as well as he did he would only hear the hurt in those words, but Abraxas heard the anger, too. Tom Riddle only ever got angry when someone touched a nerve. Usually he remained cool and impassive or playful and patronizing.

_Go make another horcrux why don't you, Lord Voldemort._

Abraxas couldn't help but laugh at that. It hurt his lungs and it seemed that Tom Riddle was too preoccupied with exchanging fighting words with Ravenclaw to properly pay attention to Abraxas. His thoughts swam dangerously. His hands shook, but before he could articulate that he needed rest, Voldemort was overtaking him (and had the horcrux always been so strong?)

He hissed to Beatrice to get ready and the snake hissed that she would wait at their signal. Such a good, biddable creature.

Abraxas was climbing up the Chamber, closing the entrance with another hiss, and turning around to spot Severus Snape with Myrtle Warren. A wand pointed as did a finger.

''It's him! I'm certain it's him. He's been coming and going from this place often. It is good that you were doing rounds, Severus, because I couldn't stand it anymore. No, I simply couldn't!'' She flirted with Snape next, because she was an unlived ghost: ''He won't be a problem for someone of _your_ calibre, Severus.'' Then school girl giggling. ''Hihihi.''

''You're going to explain to me how you've just spoken parseltongue.'' Snape said, his gaze grim, but his wand wavering slightly. Abraxas thought that his vow to Eileen all those decades ago had finally brought some good to him. By taking care of her son on her request Severus had become weak on him.

''Severus.'' Abraxas addressed. Voldemort was there near his mind, near his words, near his cognitive functions, near his very soul. It was a controlling grip that reached from the horcrux. ''This is not what you think.'' Abraxas' legs moved of their own accord.

''Stop.'' Severus nearly shouted. Abraxas ceased his approach.

''Allow me to explain.''

''Explain, then.''

''I'm-'' Abraxas cut himself off by a cough that was worse than any so far. This one felt like glass razed across his insides and drew blood. It seemed that finally all of the excitement he allowed himself had crossed the line. Voldemort must have sensed Abraxas' fatigue because he took over completely. Instead of silver red shone. Instead of finality there was hope for survival.

Abraxas would rest. Voldemort simply needed to take care of Severus. Take care of Warren. Warren was less important as legilimency could not be performed on a ghost, memory extraction could not be performed on a ghost – therefore it was only her senile word against a word of a respected Lord.

''I have a question for you, _Snape_.''

Severus Snape visibly recoiled, differentiating the inflection in tone and the difference in persons. His wand grip tightened. ''Moody was right, then. You two are working together. He wasn't wholly right, but…'' Severus sneered: ''Right enough.''

''I know your type. You would never surrender your memory willingly. Abraxas thinks of you as a highly trained occlumens. As a spy that's ruined his life and my view of him. So, now my question is posed: which one of us would you prefer to tear your mind apart for the memory of you catching us here?''

Snape took on a defensive stance, as if in a duel. Abraxas did not go for his wand. Voldemort did not think it would come to that. Abraxas' face split into a politician's smile. The mannerisms were incredibly different.

''How many of you are there?''

Voldemort raised his brows and placed a hand over his chest as if in scandalous shock: ''How many of what, Snape? You don't make any sense.''

''The Order knows about them.'' Snape said. ''The Order's going to put a stop to you.''

''Yes, how thrilling. Defeated by a fucking baby and finished off by a group of elderly cunts.'' It was an unfathomable sight to see posh Abraxas Malfoy speaking with a cockney accent. Snape had to do a double take. That slight twitch of surprise was enough for Voldemort to take out Abraxas' wand and aim it at Snape. ''Drop the wand, Snape.''

''Drop yours!''

''I said it first,'' amusement seeped from Voldemort's voice. Abraxas' technically.

''I said it louder.'' Snape was happy that there was no one there to witness this level of childish behaviour, but he was stalling. He was stalling because the minute Abraxas took back control of his body he could be reasoned with. There was no chance of Snape defeating Voldemort. Though, he wondered why Voldemort hadn't tapped into their bond. Perhaps only the original was capable?

''Miss Warren,'' Voldemort addressed the ghost, ''why don't you go and fetch the headmaster.''

''What are you aiming at?''

Voldemort, naturally, did not deign this with a response. He smiled prettily at Snape. Abraxas had never aimed such hostility towards him.

Warren left, uncertain, but it was better than to not do anything. Snape flickered his gaze to her and missed when Voldemort cast legilimens.

The mindscape of a trained occlumens was clean. It could almost be considered sterile. It was Voldemort, properly, in his mid, mudding it up with his miasmic presence. Fire swirled around him. It beat at the sand Snape had conjured as his mind's floor. Successfully finding nothing amiss, the fire aimed at Snape specifically.

He dodged the whip of flame and pushed up his occlumency walls.

''This is commendable bit of magic. Who taught you?''

''You did.'' Snape said through gritted teeth.

Voldemort looked younger, much more than what he would have given the horcrux. How early had he started making them? Dumbledore had told him about there being more than one, but he never said. The ring on his finger was cruel, but Snape had avoided touching it, lest it attack him. It was cowardly, but it was a sure way to survive.

His fire swirled dangerously close to Snape's wall, a dam which kept his memories at bay. The more dangerous memories he extracted so no one could hold them over his head, but he had not had the time to extract this one. Snape's tongue turned to ash as he turned it nervously against the back of his teeth.

''The original taught you well.'' Voldemort approached. He wore a purple robe that had an enchanted snake swirling from the sleeves. ''He must have liked you.''

''He did.''

''And you betrayed me.'' The horcrux was not one for continuity. When it suited him he distanced himself from the original and when it didn't he spoke as if they were the same person.

This time the fire slammed into the dam with all its force. Snape screamed: ''No!'' and put everything he could into mending the cracks lining. Sweat trailed down his furrowed brow. Voldemort watched as Snape mended his attack as if nothing had happened. That wasn't true. Snape was growing more tired by the minute. He would slip.

Fire was directed into clawing feebly at Snape's robe. It trailed upward and Snape conjured dirt to cover it, stifle it.

Snape was a wary man and he would never be bold enough to taunt the real Voldemort. He had been taught everything he knew by the man and this was knowledge that had aided him in his life. Voldemort had duelled few of his Death Eaters, had taught few of his Death Eaters. Snape had piqued his interest. Abraxas once told him that just as how Snape was tormented by a Black so had Voldemort been in his youth.

''Not bad for someone who isn't a Black.'' Snape said. ''Though, only a Black can _truly_ be called a master at the mind arts.''

Voldemort's red eyes sparked. Rage turned into a maelstrom of hateful fire. This was a younger man than the wizard that had taught Severus. This one was full of life and ambition. That one had been apathetic to many matters. That one had made his blood turned to ice - this one didn't.

''You're so quick to anger, my lord,'' Snape taunted because the more this one burned there was more chance Abraxas would show up, ''it's like I'm dealing with an unruly Gryffindor plotting revenge for unfair detention.'' Then, icing on top, ''You're like that Harry Potter.''

It was a whirlwind of electricity and flames, crackling dangerously in his mind. Severus was worried, but he needed to stall. He needed to stall because Abraxas was mending himself. The sand rose and aided the storm. Severus remained where he was, guarding his memories because the minute Albus came he would out them.

So the sand and fire didn't blind him Severus closed his eyes and put up his hands to shield himself. This was for Lily. He would survive this for Lily's sake. Snape had done a lot of terrible things, had continued to do terrible things, but there would not be a single seed of doubt when concerning his loyalty. It was to Lily Evans. The heat descended on him. Lily would want him to aid in the destruction of her killer. The fire was just near enough to char him.

Snape braced for impact.

The heat disappeared.

The sand fell to where it was.

Severus opened his eyes and there was no more Lord Voldemort.

Abraxas Malfoy regarded Severus Snape with a neutral expression. He could not decipher his thoughts and that was always dangerous when dealing with a mind-breach. Severus gratefully let out a sigh. He could breathe easier now that Voldemort had fled his mind. Had been tapped out of this round.

''Severus,'' it was an exhausted old man that addressed him, an old man he had called father in his mind and rarely dared articulate for fear of being shamed, ''do you remember when Lucius, you, and I went to the Cote d'Azur?''

Snape remembered. Lucius had kept pushing Severus to swim in the sea and Severus kept saying that he didn't know how to swim – which had made both Lucius and Abraxas tag team into teaching him. He'd nearly drowned a few times, but otherwise the trip was phenomenal. It had felt like having family. Severus was so happy. Lucius told him jokes and taught him French, but teased him often like they were brothers. That was the first time Severus had dared tell Abraxas he'd seen him like a father figure, bracing for that high caw of mockery that Abraxas relished in using. It hadn't come. He'd been drawn into a hug and told that – of course, Severus was welcome to see him as family. ''Your mother Eileen is a dear friend of mine. It is misfortunate that she mixed with a muggle – but halfbloods are perfectly decent individuals.''

Water began to rise from the sand. It wet his nice dress shoes. Abraxas ignored his soaked through boots.

''Do you remember when you told me you were accepted to do a potion mastery?''

Severus remembered being so thrilled that he'd clutched onto the acceptance letter and nearly pushed Bellatrix Lestrange out of the way in his search for Abraxas. Voldemort finally told him that he was near the Malfoy Lake. He'd been a powerful, but ultimately morose sight. Severus had practically launched himself in a sprint, sometimes flying off of the ground in his elated hurry to tell Abraxas the great news. The lake was full of swans the peafowls were cawing at angrily. Abraxas was trying to integrate swans in his peafowl world, but he gave up afterwards. ''Severus,'' Abraxas smiled when he saw him running, face red and smile wide, ''how are you?'' ''I got in!'' Severus laughed and hugged Abraxas, toppling them over in the Lake. ''I got in!''

The water rose. The water was now by their knees. Abraxas, who was a very tall individual, remained unfazed. Severus, on the other hand, began to worry. When he looked at the water all he could think about was the Cote d'Azur and Malfoy Lake. The more he looked at the water the more easily it rose. This was advanced legilimency. This was legilimency that was learned from a Black.

''Do you remember,'' Abraxas' voice said and it was like a lulling, gentle wave, ''when you were actually someone I would have done everything in my power to protect?''

The water instantly shot up to Severus' nose. Yet his feet remained planted on the ground and he could not swim up. The dam was uncracked. The dam was okay. Where was the water coming from? Had he himself conjured it from just remembering? This was advanced. This appeared to be something the then young Voldemort didn't know how to do. He had probably learned this later and picked what he would teach.

Snape grasped hold of his nose and clamped a hand over his mouth, shutting his eyes tightly and trying to summon air to breathe. This was his mind. This was his mind, his frantic words buzzed. This was not anyone's playground but his own.

Abraxas Malfoy had adopted it as his own.

''Severus,'' his tone was crystal clear through the water, as if it didn't touch him, ''this is a mental strain. It may cause you great harm when I detach from your mind. Do not let your pride for a man that would easily destroy you cloud your judgement.''

''How are you even doing this?'' Severus garbled and mouthfuls of water flooded him. His eyes twitched. His arms flailed but he couldn't move. His mindscape was not his.

''It is my body that is sick.'' Abraxas explained, ''My mind and my magic are fine.''

His tone dripped with disappointment. Severus couldn't bear to hear it.

''Severus, give the memory to me. Is dying for Dumbledore what you want?''

Snape was not doing any of this for Dumbledore. He was doing this for Lily and if his time to die was finally nigh, then so be it.

Abraxas must have registered this for he held the strings in his mind and pulled to reveal Severus' thoughts. There he saw Lily Evans and Severus pining after her even after death.

Something seemed to switch in Abraxas' calm and indifferent demeanour.

His lips twisted down into an ugly sneer. It looked foreign on the merry man.

''What is it about you halfbloods, beaten down and trodden across, that when you are offered love; when you are offered the world at your fingertips,'' Abraxas clenched his hands into fists and the water rose above them both, engulfing them whole, yet the voice was as clear as if it was spoken directly to Snape's ears, ''When you are offered someone obviously superior, obviously more worthy of your time and your heart,'' a scream of bewildered anger burst and rippled Severus' mind in threads, ''you ALWAYS pick the **mudblood**.'' With miniscule effort Abraxas had crossed the distance between himself and Snape, grabbed hold of the front of his robe, and began to throttle angrily: ''What is it about them that allures you? What does a lowly nobody have that I, a Sacred Twenty-Eight _Lord_ don't?''

Severus looked into clouded, unfocused eyes. It seemed that his body could not handle this magical strain. Abraxas spoke through Severus. His words rang empty. His words weren't aimed at him. They were aimed at him, but they weren't said _to_ him.

Everyone kept waiting until the illness progressed to his mind. Severus was among these people and he believed he was finally seeing the downfall of Lord Malfoy.

''What did he give you that I couldn't?!'' Abraxas spoke through the water easily because it was not magic aimed to destroy him. Snape became lighter headed and worried that perhaps Voldemort would have been more reasonable. That he'd miscalculated. ''I gave you everything and told you to take whatever you wanted! I funded your war! I gave you my heir to brand and kill as you saw fit! I handed you things no one else would have dared give a halfblood!''

Snape looked back to his dam. This was a wrong move to make. Abraxas pulled his chin centrefold with his free hand. Snape couldn't breathe. He concentrated on the dam and began to crack it down himself, only so he could escape this madness. In his senility, perhaps, Abraxas had forgotten which memory he was in pursuit of.

''All I wanted was for you to love me as I loved you.'' His words were lonely in a drowned world. The cracks deepened. Snape floundered to give awareness to Abraxas, to tell him he was talking to the wrong sort.

''When I came back and the war started … you looked at me with such aversion. It was the only emotion you felt other than apathy.''

The water began to drift down. Severus tried to lunge from the hold Abraxas still had on him and breathe in fresh air. The water was passing through the cracks. It was drowning his memories, but it was something Severus would contain later. For now he just needed to survive. Soon he could breathe, soon he could speak: ''Abraxas,'' he panted, ''I'm Severus.''

''Until it wasn't. But then all of your interactions were forced towards me. I know I did wrong by killing Leach. He was your political ace that you'd hidden from purebloods and halfbloods and muggleborns alike. No one except Walburga knew Lord Voldemort,'' Abraxas used the moniker he had never used until being told how much it had meant to his lover, ''and Nobby Leach were allies.''

''Abraxas, _please_ ,'' Severus begged. Because his father figure looked so awfully pale. Even paler than a usual Malfoy tan. His voice was small and unlike anything it had ever been. There were no pustules and scars decorating his skin because this was how Abraxas saw himself and in minds one could look however they wished. It was just a frail old man looking at Severus and not seeing him.

''But do you know how much it hurt when you didn't visit me in New Zealand, when you punished me for something I couldn't quite place... You never told me. You never once yelled at me or cursed me. You never once confirmed my doubts! The horcrux is too young to know.''

Abraxas ran a hand through his hair and pulled some of it out on his messy way down. ''I thought… Tom, if you'd have told me. Tom, I don't think I would have… I don't know if I would have killed him. But do you know how much it hurts that you _chose_ him over me?''

Snape tried to plead one more time before forcing Abraxas out of his mindscape. ''Abraxas, it's me, Snape. Severus Snape. Eileen Prince's son.''

''Eileen tried to get me to stop taking it. I mean... _the signs_ were all there. You were almost never at Malfoy Manor. You were smiling and I thought you were happy – but then again I was too out of it most of the time to properly understand humans around me. You were the happiest I'd ever seen you.''

Snape tried nudging Abraxas out of his mind, but the man wouldn't budge. He faded, but he was still there.

''Gods, I'm sorry about Nobby Leach. I truly am. I really, honestly am.''

''It's okay.'' Snape said, playing the role he'd been dealt. ''It's fine, just leave my mind. Just go back to your own mind. You're sick, Abraxas. Please.''

''You forgive me, don't you?'' it was a desperate, lover's plea.

''Yes,'' Snape said and Abraxas smiled at him.

''Oh, Tom, I love you.''

''I love you, too.'' Snape said and with that managed to finally push Abraxas out of his mind.

Once Severus Snape got a good look at his surroundings he saw Abraxas collapsed on the floor of the girl's lavatory. The memory was drowned and garbled in his mind and could not be used. Myrtle and Dumbledore rushed in quick strides. Minerva McGonagall followed suit.

Severus dragged his aching self towards Abraxas. He shakily pressed two fingers to Abraxas' neck and waited.

''Severus!''

And waited.

''Oh Severus what has happened here? Hihihi, I _knew_ you would win against this foul man.''

And waited.

''Severus, my boy, what's happened?''

And waited.


	22. Surprise Bitch I

Bartemius Crouch Sr. was honestly too exhausted with this song and dance.

''You can't keep recasting that curse on me! I'll grow immune to it and what will you do then, father?''

His son shouted angrily, twisting in his room like an adolescent and not a thirty-six year old. Bartemius Crouch looked at his son, took his wand out, aimed it at his face, and whispered: ''Imperio.''

His eyes glowed with Bartemius' magic and his body relaxed.

''You are not to leave this house. If you need anything you are to ask Winky. Do not test me, Bartemius Jr.''

''Yes, father.'' slowly his Death Eater son said, a joyful, biddable expression plastered on his face. A face that reminded him of his wife, too much for comfort.

The things Bartemius Crouch did for his late wife were beyond reason. He contemplated his life choices as he left for work, growing more and more fed up with keeping his son secret.

* * *

Bellatrix walked through Azkaban freely. She checked each cell to find if there was any semblance of sanity left in her brethren and sisters. She wound up in the cell where her dear comrade in arms had been. ''Barty?'' she asked and drew nearer to the corpse. Her lips pressed into a thin, emotionless line. Dementors followed her like an entourage, waiting for grief to slip up. She would not give in.

Yet seeing her friend dead did snap some heartstrings.

She grabbed hold of the covered body and pulled the blanket. Pause. She blinked. Huh.

Bellatrix had made enough skeletons in her days as an expert torturer to know that this was a female skeleton.

'' _Huh.''_

She looked at the Dementors and asked them what this was. One replied with gesticulations. Bellatrix vowed that after her life in Azkaban was over she would make an expert charade player.

''One word.'' Bellatrix said. The Dementor shook its head yes. Bellatrix was killing it at charades. This was what could be accomplished with good food, a decent shower (Dementors could cast cleaning spells! She was clean! Life was good! The cold wasn't getting to her! She should have made a deal ages ago. Dementors were lovely creatures that Bellatrix would defend to the death)

The Dementor was mimicking a person rocking something.

Bellatrix, having never been touched by a mother figure in her entire life because aristocracy didn't deign to show affection, was stumped.

When another Dementor began to mimic yelling and was shaking a clawed finger menacingly Bellatrix got in one go: ''Mother?'' Nodding from the Dementors. ''His mother? Madame Crouch?'' She looked at the skeleton. ''Oh that **fucker**.''

''Barty better get his arse over here this instant!'' Bellatrix had been Barty's mentor and partner in crime during the latter part of the war after Voldemort had stopped favouring her.

She concentrated on the Mark and began to call Barty.

* * *

Barty was looking at the ceiling of his room with a dumbstruck expression. He was making a decision to swim through the clouds and enjoy life. He felt like floating. All of the pain of his life diminished. Life was good!

Until, of course, unimaginable pain shot through his forearm and he woke from the imperius induced trance. It throbbed in a way not even the Dark Lord's summons had burned.

Barty reluctantly answered and found that it was Bellatrix calling him.

Bellatrix?

Fucking shite – **Bellatrix**!

He was transported to 1981 when Bellatrix had trained him and been the sole reason for why he had frequent nightmares. Barty wasn't going to keep Bellatrix fucking Lestrange waiting.

Winky told him that he shouldn't leave the house and Barty, overcome with panic and a flare for the dramatic – pushed her away and told her that he had to leave and that he was being summoned by his father. Bellatrix was kind of like a father figure. Terrifying. Cared for him. Told him 'good job' and patted him on the back. Gave him that much needed validation his real father never gave him.

Winky asked if Master Jr. was sure.

Gods, Barty thought, elves were so fucking stupid.

''Yes, Winky.'' Barty said, grasping the door knob and waiting, burning to turn the knob and flee this wretched home after years of imprisonment.

Winky nodded and said that she was going to check with Master Crouch first and if Master Jr. could wait it would be great.

Barty's arm was killing him. Bellatrix was pissed off. Bellatrix was waiting. His father could stuff it. He turned the door knob, fled past the wards, and appartated the moment he could.

The pain nearly splinched him.

''Bellatrix! Ease up!'' He furiously tapped at the Mark. He had no idea how to work this thing. Only Bellatrix and the Dark Lord knew all the ins and outs of the Mark.

Glancing around, he noticed that he was on the island of Azkaban. He'd keyed into where Bellatrix was demanding he come and if he knew where she was, Barty would have endured through the pain and ignored the summons! He didn't want to come back here. No, sir-y! No way. No how. Thank you, ma'am!

Barty turned around, but collapsed from the pain when she realised he was trying to turn back.

Damn it.

Fine.

Barty pushed himself up and went, wandlessly, into the fray of Dementors. Fuck it. Fine. Bellatrix was calling and if he had to die trying to save someone it might as well be the General.

But the Dementors didn't attack him. They must have been confused with seeing someone willingly going INTO Azkaban. Barty laughed miserably at himself and continued. Directions poured directly into his mind. Now that he was clear headed, Barty began to wonder why their Lord hadn't broken her out of Azkaban? Why hadn't he come back for them at all?

But Barty didn't have to wonder for long because when he got to a specific floor of Azkaban he was attacked with a hug that pushed him to the ground. It was very filthy down there, he thought. But the woman on top of him was so happy to see him that Barty couldn't help but endure the agony which was Azkaban.

''Barty!''

''Bellatrix!''

She laughed into the crook of his neck and refused to let him go. Her hair was suffocating him. Barty was too terrified to tell her to move.

Bellatrix pushed herself off of him and then slapped him hard. He yelped in indignation.

''Explain your absence!''

''My father kept me under the imperius curse!''

Bellatrix furrowed her brows. ''Trust that man to use an unforgivable on his own son just so his image wouldn't be blemished. Why'd he break you out?''

''Mother broke me out, really. It was her dying wish.''

That checked out. The Dementors watched keenly and crowded around Bellatrix and their new toy. Bellatrix spoke to the Dementors like two foreigners that didn't know english and their native languages were too dissimilar only could, loads of slowly yelled out words and mad gesticulations.

They nodded, petting Bellatrix like she was their large human dog or something and left them to peruse the other levels of Azkaban.

Bellatrix turned to Barty once the Dementors left and said: ''Listen, I love them dearly, but I need to leave Azkaban. You're going to help me out. It will be dangerous. Do you know how to cast a patronus?''

''No?'' Barty realised what a death trap he'd been forced into. ''Bellatrix, what the fuck?'' He told her he had no wand and Bellatrix said that she knew where they kept the prisoner's wands in Azkaban. If they could only get there before the Dementors figured she was two-timing them everything would work out.

''You know how to cast a patronus charm?''

''Never tried it before, but I'm a Black.'' Bellatrix said, huffing out her chest proudly. ''Can't be that hard.''

''My condolences.'' Barty inferred that Rodolphus had died. Bella said that Rod was alive, but that his mind was gone and she refused to be married to a vegetable. That seemed kind of cut-throat, but understandable so Barty didn't speak up. This was Bellatrix Black, eldest Black daughter of Cygnus and Druella Black. Cutthroat was what she was.

Bellatrix was looking off in the distance for a bit, her gaze getting glassy. Barty gently nudged her and she came back alert. Seventeen years in Azkaban, _sweet Merlin._

''I _tty_ bi _tty_ Bar _ty_ ,'' she giggled and gestured he follow her. Barty obliged. They went down a few levels. Barty asked where the human guards were.

''It's Yule. They're on leave. Dementors usually patrol during Yule alone.'' This was both a blessing and a curse because human guards had wands, but Dementors left you feeling an empty shell. Except, Barty noticed that the General had befriended the Dementors. He didn't ask how this was accomplished because curiosity killed the cat. Barty rather wished to live on without as many mental scars as asking that questions would bring him.

''Where are we going?''

''Wand room.''

''I reckon it's guarded.'' Barty put his hands into his robe pocket and realised he was wearing his sleeping robes. It was convenient for his father if he was always dressed in sleeping robes. Something about seeing him dressed like that that made his father not pull any sleeping spells when dealing with him. The imperius curse whilst awake and the potent sleeping spells to keep him out cold. What lovely seventeen years of his life.

Bellatrix snorted at his dry quips. ''Oh, I assume so.''

''How are we going to go in?''

''I'm going to ask to go in.''

''You think they're just going to let you?''

_They fucking did._

All Bellatrix had to do was ask a Dementor nicely and they just let them into the room with all of the inmates' wands. Barty was never going to use force in his life ever again. He found his wand (blackthorn and dragon heartstrings) and gripped it with more yearning than he had ever had. Once his fingers clasped around it, a burst of magic enveloped him and he felt whole for the first time in a very, very long time. Glancing towards where Bellatrix was he saw her looking at her wand carefully.

Once she took up a wand it was like a picture finally fell into place.

The General stood in front of him and Barty felt like bowing to her. Felt like honouring her like a legend. Her eyes glowed with magic coursing through her, amplified by the conduit in her hand. The walnut wand swished through the air and a powerful slash of magic escaped it, shattering cases of enclosed wands. Barty jumped aside and noticed that the Dementors had realised their plan of escape. That they had realised Bellatrix was going to leave. Did they really expect her to take her wand and remain in Azkaban? Barty didn't understand, until he realised that the Dementors were fae and that they could never understand human nature.

''Bellatrix!'' Barty shouted, pointing to the approaching Dementors.

Bellatrix tilted her head to the side, swished her wand again, and again, and again, as if getting used to the feel of it after being without a wand for so long. Her magic pounded in her ears and through her pure blood and through her mind and she aimed it at the Dementors. ''Get behind me.'' Bellatrix said. Barty didn't need to be told twice.

Bellatrix concentrated on thinking happy thoughts. Like punching Voldemort in the face. Breaking that face. That really pretty face that was responsible for her anguish. She was his most loyal! That turned to anger and wasn't really a memory. Wasn't the rule of thumb that she ought to use memories?

The Dementors were approaching. Barty was gripping her shoulder and whimpering. The effects of scorned Dementors were frightening. Bellatrix remained grounded, refusing to allow a Black to crumble. She was of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black! If her aunt Walburga could conjure a patronus she could, too. That woman was the most evil witch in existence. All right, maybe not evil, per se, she was still family - but definitely toxic and mean in a way that only family knew how to be. Family that knew all of your weaknesses and exploited them happily.

The General breathed in deeply. She held her breath and thought. Thought about Sirius Black and her play-duelling while Andromeda, Narcissa, and Regulus played tea-party. Those three always wanted to dissect social functions of the wizarding world more than Bellatrix or Sirius - that conniving, filthy, blood-traitor cousin of hers!

This memory fell into anger and became corrupted.

Bellatrix screamed through gritted, frustrated teeth, abuzz with magical energy waiting to be spent. Barty begged that Bellatrix either do something or they flee. _No_. She would not flee like some coward. She forced herself to think about her life. Surely there was a powerful enough memory to give her a patronus. It couldn't be that hard!

Her wedding! It was the most wonderful, delightful - yeah, **yeah** _no_ it wasn't. Bellatrix didn't even get buried in the memories of that day to know it was subpar at best. A way for her to save face that Andromeda had ruined.

Andromeda and Bellatrix, during Yule as this one, hiding from little tattle-tale Narcissa in corridors of their home. They giggled and talked about cute boys and girls they'd seen. Bellatrix whispered about a Fawley girl in Slytherin that wanted to be an auror. Andromeda mentioned a cute boy from Hufflepuff without giving out a surname. Bellatrix didn't think much of it then. The Fawley girl had become an auror, married a Longbottom (also an auror), and Andromeda had eloped with a mudblood.

The Dementors breached the room and were a metre away. Barty was shouting and casting spells to slow them down.

Bellatrix came to terms that there were some things that she couldn't do, turned around, grabbed hold of Barty, and with all of her might shouted: ''MAXIMUM BOMBARDA!'' The walls of Azkaban crumbled under the strength of her spell. Bellatrix pushed both her and Barty downward to plummet from Azkaban's imposing heights with a sea of Dementors on their tail.

* * *

Meanwhile in Tuzi, Montenegro.

Lena, Merrythought, Beatrice, Zorka, Arsenije (Zorka's younger brother), Marko (Zorka's youngest brother), Ilinka (Zorka's mother for all of those that forgot), Hermione, and Montgomery stared down as a market went up in flames. People were screaming in a combination of Albanian and Montenegrin. Vendors of both magical ingredients and muggle clothing were trying to salvage what they could. They did this with a lot of fervour given how the clothes were basically acquired for free as most of the clothes from Tuzi tended to be smuggled in and then sold for very cheap to boutique owners and smugglers alike who then promptly sold the clothes for a higher price for profit. Basically if you had to get something for cheap you went to Tuzi. Given how Montenegro was too lazy to care about the statute of secrecy, Tuzi was also a very large source of magical ingredients. Could be called the only of its kind in all of Montenegro.

As the fire reflected in Voldemort's very sad eyes all he could bring himself to say was: ''To je sada tako.'' which in translation could be inferred to mean many things, but the gist of it being that there was nothing to be done and that things had to be accepted no matter how horrible they were.

A whip of fire lashed from the hearth of the accumulating mass of destruction and Voldemort dodged it by jumping up in the air. Hermione watched him stay afloat and inquired suspiciously: ''You can fly without a broom?''

''What,'' Voldemort scoffed, ''like it's hard?''

Hermione smiled a very patronizing smile then and said: ''Pretty hard considering the only British wizard to ever accomplish the task was _Voldemort_.''

Voldemort dropped to the floor faster than if a killing curse had taken him down. Fuck. He'd forgotten how brilliant he was. Hermione looked at him like an itch she had had for a very long time had finally been scratched. It unnerved him.

Zorka fell to her knees and beat the ground with her clenched, bloodied fist: ''Not Tuzi, you monsters!''

Marko and Arsenije went to her aid. Both of them bemoaning all of the money they could have spent there.

Ilinka saluted Tuzi's burning silhouette like she would her dead president-for-life Josip Broz Tito. Tears streamed down her face in silence.

Lena was the first of the gang to actually go and try to help put out the fire. Everyone, remembering that that was an option, went to contain the damage.

''Who taught you how to fly without a broom?'' Hermione had that shite-eating grin plastered on her face. Voldemort tried his very best to avoid talking. Lena, not understanding the situation at all, came into the conversation willingly, saying that it was she that did so back in the 194 - 60s. Hermione _beamed_ at the mistake in decades. She hugged a plushie that Marko had given her. It was some yellow electricity rat.

''Well, sir,'' Hermione buzzed absolutely with joy, joy at what? Voldemort didn't know. He couldn't access her mind, the vows in place as her mentor disallowed him to do so. Damn it. He felt so off kilter.

''Yes, Hermione?''

''Might you teach me how to fly?''

* * *

''BELLATRIX, WHAT IN MERLIN'S NAME ARE YOU TRYING TO DO?!''

Barty and Bellatrix had found themselves in a difficult situation because they could face horrible fates whatever they did. Well, as far as Barty was concerned. The horde of Dementors flying towards them could kiss them, suck them dry, and then discard their bodies for wild animals to gnaw on or they could hit the rapidly approaching jagged rocks and die horribly. Anti-apparition wards lined the prison exterior. Barty had apparated on the other side of the island where guards could (if they really had to) apparate to and fro.

She was looking at the ground. It was closer. Closer. She was looking and thinking and concentrating and curling her fingers inward into her palm. The harsh wind gained from such a fast drop caused her eyes to well with tears and she blinked them away.

This was something she could do.

Her Lord - no. Not her lord after he'd betrayed his Death Eaters' trust like this. _Voldemort_ could not cast the patronus and Bellatrix wouldn't berate herself for failing on her first try. No, what she would focus on was what he _could_ do.

Because anything he could do—

Bellatrix could do **better**.

Barty held onto her and screamed in a very distracting way. Bella yelled at him to shut up.

''I'm allowed to express myself, Bellatrix. If I want to die screaming I'll very well die screaming!''

This was what happened when a nineteen year old was constantly kept under the imperius curse. He still acted like a bloody nineteen year old.

Bellatrix pushed her magic into the soles of her feet, twisting slightly through the air as if testing the air currents and easing into a fight against them. She wasn't weightless because Bellatrix would never think of herself as less. She was power and what her will demanded became reality.

Barty blasted at Dementors with his wand and Bellatrix kept her wand by her side as a welcome companion. She closed her eyes. Breathed in. Breathed out. _Twisted_.

They fell still. Barty's screaming attested to this.

Yet.

Yet.

Oh yet!

Bellatrix opened her eyes and the rocks were approaching much more slowly.

For now she would take this.

All they needed to do was go past the anti-apparition wards and they would be free.

''Barty!''

Barty snapped his attention from his fearful tangent to her call.

''I need you to blast us.'' Bellatrix motioned for her right where the wall was in order for them to go left where freedom awaited.

''EXCUSE ME?''

''Just do as I say!''

Bellatrix would do it herself but the concentration necessary to just slow down and slowly, so, so very slowly stop falling altogether was beyond her expectations.

Barty obeyed because he knew that seniority had precedent and Bellatrix fucking Lestrange knew what she was doing. He cast a small bombarda spell, giving them enough momentum to be steered in the right direction. Flying through the air now brought them hope. They laughed. The Dementors were close. The wards were **closer**!

The moment they passed through the wards a weight lifted from their shoulders and Bellatrix apparated them.

Barty's scream was full of joy. He hugged Bellatrix and called her ingenious. Bellatrix patted Barty on the shoulder and said: ''Good job, Barty.'' The boy melted at her praise. Then took in their surroundings and asked where she'd taken them. It was a suburb. Houses lined the street. In front of them was a calm, yet distinctly magical house in a muggle neighbourhood.

''We need to stay low. I don't trust anyone under Dumbledore's influence and I sure as my blood status don't trust anyone under Abraxas Malfoy's influence. Leave the talking to _me_.'' Barty nodded. Then Bellatrix amended knowingly: ''Depending on the situation, however, be sure to have obliviate on the tip of your tongue and ready to fly.'' They both walked up to the front door. She wore her Azkaban rag while Barty was dressed in his sleeping robe. They made an awfully awkward pair as they knocked on the door, both armed with wands.

A brown haired woman opened the door.

Barty's eyes widened when he recognized her.

"Bellatrix." came the cool, unafraid greeting.

Bellatrix curtly nodded, all business: ''Andromeda.''

* * *

Kotor, Montenegro. Few hours before Tuzi.

Zorka and Mrs. Ilinka were standing aside with Hermione while the men duelled with words. Zorka sipped some rakija from her orange mug. Ilinka called Zorka an alcoholic. Zorka sipped louder to drown the haters as she drowned in her turmoil. Her son's birthday was around this time.

Zorka's family was full of wacky characters that would be introduced via small paragraphs because the author didn't think to insert the family until now but grew attached to the mere phenomenon of this dysfunctional Montenegrin family so they needed to appear even if the timing could have been better.

Marko - the baby and most successful of the family - had returned from his job on a freight ship with an abundance of money and gifts to shower his family with. Montgomery's favourite Mrvaljević because he brought him weird American looking clothes to help him craft his persona. He stood between a peeved Montgomery and a determined Arsenije.

Arsenije - the middle child syndrome incarnate - had come to visit Zorka because Marko was coming and he'd be damned if he didn't use every waking minute trying to convert _the Lord Voldemort_ to the Orthodox church. He was a priest usually living in Belgrade. Very conservative.

''I hear you got thing for arson,'' Arsenije said in broken english, giddily rubbing his hands together and looking at Montgomery behind the Marko's wall of conflict-is-disallowed-ment ''Because I have good,'' Arsenije made the OK sign with his hand, ''amazing offer for you. We celebrate Christmas Eve by lighting a giant fire in front of our churches. Sound good yes? I let you light the fire in Belgrade if you promise to convert.''

Montgomery Goldsmith looked at Arsenije. ''That's your best offer? I can light fires whenever I _want_.''

''The Orthodox Church saves all souls, no matter how heinous their crimes.'' Arsenije said, amping up things. ''No soul is without help.''

Montgomery Goldsmith, Zorka could tell if Hermione couldn't, pretended to consider this gravely. He inched closer to Arsenije and asked: ''Anyone can go to Heaven?''

''Oh yes. God forgives _everyone_ if they ask to be forgiven.''Arsenije was aiming to convert Voldemort for the acclaim, not really for the right reasons.

Montgomery nodded absurdly slowly. ''You say my soul can be saved?'' Tom, I'll split my soul because I can, Riddle had long ago come to terms with the fact that his soul was unsalvageable and he quite liked the inhumanity it brought him. It put him on a whole other step, above lesser humanity.

''Jes, jes...'' Arsenije grinned and he looked a lot like Zorka when he thought he was winning.

Montgomery summoned Zorka's rakija mug to his hand, took a sip of it, enjoyed the burn, curled his lips in a faux-relieved smile. He handed the mug to Arsenije who drank because he was from the Balkan and to refuse rakija was simply not done. Just before Arsenije swallowed his sip Montgomery said, his tone oh-so-grateful: ''I'm so thankful, Arsenije, to finally find a community that accepts me as wholly as you claim.'' Arsenije nodded, just about to say that there wasn't a thing that the Orthodox Church would frown upon about him, when Voldemort added, suddenly: ''The Catholics and I didn't get on well.'' Arsenije nodded along, muttering about those unreasonable Catholics and Protestants. ''You see, they frowned upon my homosexuality.''

The _speed_ with which the light in Arsenije's eyes had disappeared was faster than the speed of light. The mug fell from his grip and shattered to the floor. He looked at Voldemort in horror.

Montgomery placed a hand on Arsenije's shoulder and squeezed it: ''I'm so happy that's not a problem here.''

Zorka _screeched_ with laughter. Ilinka asked what was said, as she didn't know English well. Hermione translated shakily, shaking her head and not knowing how to respond.

Marko's shoulders shook silently with laughter and he patted Monty on the back very proudly: ''Legendice!'' Turning to Zorka: ''Monty je pravi kotorski oriđinal.''

''A đe!'' Zorka laughed and mended her mug with magic, summoning it back to her own hands.

Arsenije, defeated, just kind of slinked out of the cabin. Montgomery had a feeling he'd never try converting him again. Ha. It was so good to be able to verbally demolish people again. He _was_ getting better.

Marko, to celebrate his return on land, said that they could all go to Tuzi and buy things that everyone felt needed.

Montgomery only needed to glance to his pressure cooker and say: ''I need a proper cauldron. A potioneer can't live like this.''

Zorka, having poured herself a mug of Nikšićko pivo (autochthonous montenegrin beer), said that she wondered if Tuzi was gonna start selling kids anytime soon. It was a good thing that Ilinka didn't know english because she would have slapped Zorka for her sense of humour.

Arsenije called out that he wanted a new family and if Marko could get him that in Tuzi, he'd be really thrilled.

''You can always divorce your wife!''

''I meant this family I was born into, not the one I willingly stepped into. Me, my wife, and my _magical children_ are happy!'' Arsenije said, still outside. Brother and sister yelled at each other. Marko translated for Ilinka until she just came to the conclusion that she had only one son and no daughters. Then lovingly patted Marko on the cheek.

Both Zorka and Arsenije glared at Marko then.

Voldemort was beyond thrilled to be an orphan. He asked Hermione if she wanted something from Tuzi.

''Um. I don't know?''

''We'll get you a Pikachu plushie.'' Marko said wisely. ''Pikachu is popular with kids.''

It took them additional two hours to make a strategy plan for Tuzi because Mr. Montgomery was a foreigner and he couldn't be trusted to go by himself anywhere.

''I can manage _fine_. I know prezent and perfekat and I don't need anything else!''

''You don't know Serbian.'' Arsenije broke it to him. ''When you talk and my two year old talks there is no difference.''

''Yeah, your Montenegrin is okay with _us_ because we understand what you want to say, but anything else that demands more finesse you're hopeless.'' Zorka agreed with her brother.

Marko asked, then: ''Wait, don't you know Albanian though?''

Arsenije looked at Montgomery like he'd grown another head in the meanwhile. ''You can't learn Serbian and you know Albanian?''

''Albanian is so much easier than Montenegrin.''

''I'm just waiting for the backlash if he slips up and calls it Croatian.'' Marko whispered to Hermione who didn't get the socio-political mess of that jab. Which was a good thing because Hermione was really stressed from her Order job, her conspiracy theories, and just the overall absurdity of her life if her conspiracy theory of Montgomery Goldsmith being Lord Voldemort turned out to be true. Honestly if she proved that Voldemort was indeed her mentor, Hermione would (naturally) alert the Order, but she would ask him weirder and more Voldemort specific questions. Who knows, Hermione thought as she looked at Montgomery arguing with Zorka about Albanian grammar, maybe he might out himself.

Lena (hiding under umbrella) and the Merrythoughts (not) were in Tuzi because they were in search of Montgomery to help Professor Merrythought with something (Lena wouldn't say what and this set off some red flags in Hermione's opinion, but she remained silent). To go from Albania (across the Skadar lake because every other border was madness) to Montenegro and not visit Tuzi _simply wasn't done._

They met up with Montgomery and Hermione by complete accident, all of them drawn to the magical marketplace. Zorka mostly spent time with her family who was buying clothes by the dozen. Elated screams of disbelief at how cheap things were could be heard from the native population and foreigners alike.

''Hey,'' Hermione nudged her mentor who looked up from his ingredient inspection and looked in the direction Hermione pointed. Lena was haggling in Albanian. Merrythought and her wife looked at jewellery.

''Lena!'' Montgomery yelled.

Lena turned around. ''Hey, it's our mess of a son, Galatea!''

Galatea and Montgomery spoke in hushed tones. She pulled him away from Hermione and Hermione, curious as ever, wanted to know what they were talking about. Though, Marko Mrvaljević came with a Pikachu plushie he'd bought for her and she got wrangled in a conversation with him so she didn't catch on what her mentor was talking about. It couldn't be good, because both Galatea and Montgomery were grim faced.

Beatrice, though, seemed like a very nice and quiet person. Lena and she awkwardly talked about their interests. They both liked Edvard Grieg's in the Hall of the Mountain King.

''Once when I was hunting with my coven, the other half of our coven played that for dramatic effect.''

''That seems like a lot of work.''

''Took us months to rehearse properly.''

Before the invention of modern clickbait, Tuzi had vendors doing a similar thing by shouting: ''You won't believe what we've got!''

''Come here to find out!''

''Fiendfyre-proof!''

At that, Montgomery's curiosity was piqued. He approached the vendor and saw that supposedly a cauldron in his stock was fiendfyre proof. A lot of potent and dark magic could be brewed solely by using fiendfyre as a heat source. These cauldrons were beyond expensive, but given how everything was already stolen here Montgomery understood that the low price was still very profitable. He ran a hand over the material and nodded. It was a cauldron that even Slughorn would be envious of.

''Fiendfyre proof.'' the vendor said, knowingly eyeing Montgomery. He had switched to English, instantly recognizing that Montgomery was not in fact from Montenegro. People just knew here if you weren't from the Balkan.

The price really wasn't that much. Montgomery thought on his pressure cooker and got depressed. Yes, he really needed a cauldron.

''Demonstration?'' vendor asked and began to take up put water into the cauldron. Next he was snapping his fingers and well _fuck._

Montgomery did not like to be in the presence of fiendfyre that wasn't his own. He took up his wand and stepped back to a safe distance. The vendor was adding potion vials into the cauldron while gently heating it with fiendfyre. It didn't eat at the material as quickly as it would have any other cauldron.

Still. This was a very large and very dangerous safety hazard. People swarmed about. Flammable ingredients littered the vicinity. Montgomery could see a very combustible vial of liquid (the name was in ancient Greek and Voldemort didn't know ancient Greek because only ancient Greeks and lady aristocrats learned in the classical arts knew ancient Greek). Next to it was just water. The vendor's face was lined with sweat. Fiendfyre at such close proximity and being held under rigorous control really drained a person. His free hand moved towards the water, but grabbed the vial instead.

Montgomery surged to bat it away and save a life of a very dedicated vendor that really wanted to sell him that cauldron, when his form was smashed into confusion with stinging, powerful pain. Clumsily he pushed the man's hand away from himself and the vial fell into the fiendfyre concoction.

Tuzi went up in flames.

Montgomery escaped narrowly with his life, cauldron and vendor discarded. He stumbled on a few of his steps, balance shot from a pulsating, irreverent stabbing sensation coursing through him deliberately.


	23. Surprise Bitch II

Mandy Sullivan liked jokes. It's just that she didn't appreciate her life becoming one.

Seeing Thoros Nott, Lucius Malfoy, and Severus Snape in her office in St. Mungo's had a thought in her mind repeat, over and over and over and over and _over_ again.

She held a cup of tea in her hands, which she sipped slowly, savouring each taste. While watching her guests she scanned them for weaknesses to use. These were Death Eaters that had barged unannounced into her office. This could not spell anything good for her. Sip. Her fingers were cold. Sip. Her cup was cold. Sip. Her tea was cold. Sip. Her eyes were cold. Sip.

Setting the tea cup down, Mandy asked the Death Eaters: ''What do you want?''

Thoros Nott looked the least emotionally compromised, therefore he answered: ''Your cooperation.'' From his deep robe pocket (extended, of course, because what Lord of Twenty-Eight didn't have something of his extended) Thoros Nott took out a locket. Or rather, Mandy Sullivan thought wisely, The Locket.

As far as doctor patient confidentiality went Mandy Sullivan honestly deserved a reward because she never told a soul about Lord Voldemort's soul. Steepling her fingers and pressing them to her chin, Mandy observed lazily. Around her left hand was a bracelet, the kind that reminisced those god-awfully-expensive Pandora ones with all of the little charms. She had four charms dangling off of the hoop: an owl, a snake, a badger, and a small cup.

''We've tried everything!'' Lucius blurted out, grief stricken. ''We've tried calling _him_.'' His body shook with tremors. He took out from his robe Tom Riddle's Diary. ''Next we tried to interrogate them with fiendfyre, to threaten them with destruction… They won't do anything. They refuse. One of them even tried possessing me!'' Mandy blinked at that. She didn't say anything, because by not saying anything more information would come forward.

''They won't tell _us_ anything about how to cure Abraxas Malfoy.'' Severus Snape said, then, very frantic and very scared to be holding a diadem. Well. Well shite. This was turning into a tragicomedy. Mandy regarded the items and her brown eyes very faintly glowed a reddish colour.

''Narcissa's gone to fetch the cup, maybe that one will be more agreeable.'' Thoros explained and approached closer with the Locket, guardedly holding it. He set the Locket down on her desk and Mandy stared. Stared. Stared. Stared. Stared.

''How do you know I know?'' slowly her lips formed the question. The hand without the bracelet grasped the Locket gently. Thoros said that he'd had to have told someone, and a healer made perfect sense. Well, _all right, **Sherlock**_.

Lord Voldemort appeared in her vision then. He greeted her amicably. ''My dear Head Girl.''

A jagged scar ran across Mandy Sullivan's face. Walburga Black didn't appreciate a mudblood holding Head Girl status when it was supposed to be **her _rightful_ title as the representative of the NOBLE AND MOST ANCIENT HOUSE OF BLACK!** It had been done with a dark curse and couldn't be healed completely.

Mandy Sullivan wore it as a reminder. ''Head Boy.''

How for that attack they had only taken ten points off of Slytherin. How Tom Riddle had, like a coward pandering to pureblood lords and ladies, not helped her. Simply stood off to the side and very half heartedly said: ''Miss Black, don't _kill_ her.''

This Lord Voldemort was the one she knew best. He was from the War, disillusioned and indifferent to lives around him. This was the one Mandy Sullivan had healed while he was on the brink of bleeding out from well-timed curses and Moody's absolute savageness.

''They want me to help Abraxas Malfoy.''

''You _do_ know how to cure him?'' Mandy leisurely asked, looking at her nails in the process.

''It was I that devised the poison, Mandy. No other horcrux has the knowledge and skill to replicate the cure except for me.''

Thoros Nott leaned forward and asked if the Locket knew. Mandy deadpanned: ''No, I'm sorry, Lord Nott. He doesn't.''

Lucius cried. Mandy Sullivan felt nothing. She tapped her finger against the desk five times in rapid succession, snapped her fingers, and resumed conversation. Severus handed the diadem over and asked that maybe they could think of something. ''Surely something can be done.''

Mandy Sullivan glared, then, having spent her pleasant niceties on these men. ''You presume _too much_.''

''As a **healer** ,'' Thoros Nott curled his hands into fists and sneered, ''it is your duty to **_heal_**. No matter your history with the patient, Madame Sullivan.'' All of the Death Eaters called her by her maiden name, mostly because Mandy herself called herself by her maiden name after her husband's painful death.

''They think I'll help Abraxas.'' Lord Voldemort hissed through his teeth, more and more like a sibilant accent than rage which infused those words. ''Do you know why the original made me, Mandy? Do you remember what he told you?''

Mandy nodded. She recalled because she'd been there for Voldemort after the creation of the Locket. Splitting his soul then had been the hardest. His last, fifth horcrux. There was a conflict of opinion with the Locket and Lord Voldemort. Voldemort had been divided and couldn't win a war while always doubting himself. So, he'd decided to make another horcrux to clear his head, while muddling his mind.

''I am the part of him that's realised how wrong it is to defend the purebloods. Those incestuous, easily influenced, addicted, **irreverent** lords and ladies that want for nothing except the destruction of everyone around them. I was their defender and their warrior – for what? I am a halfblood! I am not a pure Lord no matter how much I may wish to be.'' He leaned closer and whispered in her ear, ice tingling her skin. ''He made me, because he was afraid of me. Of everything in his mind that I represented which he resented. I am the one that helped Nobby Leach get to Minister. I am the part of him that _loved_ and he, too terrified of his own emotions and his own downfall with the purebloods, _cut me out_ like some **parasite**. ''

Mandy closed her eyes and shakily breathed.

In and out.

''He placed me in the most guarded and unapproachable place he could create because he was afraid of what I could do to others. The others he scattered mindlessly, thinking only to protect them from external forces. Yet I, oh, Mandy, dear, dear Mandy, I was the one that the world needed protection _from_.''

In and out.

'' _I_ am Lord Voldemort! Not the original who has forgotten what we stand for. Not that meandering cretin.''

In and out.

Gesturing the Death Eaters tentatively, trying to help her through the panic attack, trying to lessen her burden by taking the Locket away, but her steel grip disallowed them. ''They will all bow to me or die. The world I wanted to create differs from the one they wanted. Their lives all are a means to an end. A way for me to ascend to power. Do you think I care if they die?''

In and out.

Mandy shook her head and Voldemort called her a very smart woman for seeing this. ''Bellatrix suspected my inclinations and wisely became my right-hand because she knew I would not sacrifice her as long as she was useful.'' He tapped the cup on Mandy's bracelet and said: ''It appears even her use has run out.''

In and out.

She ignored the presence of the Death Eaters.

''I branded them like cattle,'' Voldemort looked at where their hidden marks were, ''forever to remind them that they were lorded over by a halfblood. A man of lesser blood status. A man of so much more worth than any of them could ever dream of. They hid behind their money, Mandy, and thought themselves invincible.'' He laughed. It was dark and alluring, but so tired that Mandy felt conflicted listening.

He raised his hands in the air and joyfully exclaimed: ''I know how to cure Abraxas Malfoy, but I refuse to on principal that no pureblood deserves to be saved. **We** ,'' he gestured the owl on Mandy's bracelet and then herself and then himself, ''were going to change the world. Nobby Leach did more for Magical Britain than any Minister before and after him has ever dared. Because _I_ supplied the pureblood votes he needed. _I_ imperiused the wizengamot officials that wouldn't budge from their 17th century ideals. _I_ was Minister alongside him in secret. _I_ was changing the world. _I_ was finally in the position of power **I desperately craved.** '' His eyes were glowing a potent crimson. ''And do you know how easy it was, Mandy? How that man was made for politics more than we ever were that the masses lapped up whatever he said, whatever _we_ all agreed to be said.''

Mandy curled her hands into fists and remembered the 1960s, the campaigning she did alongside Leach, and the way they couldn't get many voters that had weight. That no pureblood (Sacred Twenty-Eight or no) wished to vote for their party. How in 1961, it was Nobby Leach's idea to send Lord Voldemort a letter. A plea. It was addressed to Lord Voldemort and not Tom Marvolo Riddle and that had been the reason why he'd helped them. That and power, of course.

''And then Malfoy killed him.'' Mandy barely allowed the whimper to escape her throat.

''And then Malfoy killed him.'' Lord Voldemort slowly affirmed. ''And we're going to _relish_ in knowing Malfoy has died suffering and disfigured, **Madame Leach.** ''

Mandy tapped her fingers again, growing more anxious, but also more euphoric. She bit her lip and abruptly stood up. The Death Eaters watched her, each more hopeful for her aid than the last. How ironic and terrified must they feel to rely on Mandy Leach's help…

''Though, please, if you would be kind to collect the rest of me from these absurdly idiotic goons.''

Quickly she snatched the Diary from Lucius' hands, next the Diadem, and said: ''I'm going to try my best.'' Mandy said, with no intention of doing so. In fact, her only intention was to leave St. Mungo's as fast as she could.

Four men lined her vision.

''First of all!'' the Diary said, Mandy recognized him because the sight of sixteen year old Tom Riddle was always a sight to behold. The kid had not aged well, though. It was the horcruxes that made dermatologists love him. ''I nearly died. Second of all! I don't appreciate being tossed around like some sort of-''

''Diary?'' The Diadem snorted. ''Shut your mouth, you _toddler_.'' The Diary gasped in outrage. ''I spent my free time counting things and going insane. You, at least, could have some human contact.''

''Third of all!'' The Diary kept going. ''Why were they guilt tripping me about Abraxas Malfoy? He's just a bloke I tolerated. From their story I gathered they think we were an item? That I was queer?''

''You were.'' Mandy said. Then corrected. _''Are.''_

Another gasp, this one absolutely terrified. ''But that's illegal!''

''You killed a girl in cold blood and you draw the line with having a queer relationship?'' The Locket said, shaking his head.

''Women aren't worthy of holding positions of power so it's not like I killed anyone important.''

Mandy Sullivan, Director of St. Mungo's, just kind of blinked at that. She didn't say anything.

''Your _right hand_ during a **war** is **_a woman_**.'' the Locket said very slowly so the Diary could follow.

The Diary gasped, again. Scandalized.

''I'm starting to think we put our internalized homophobia and era-appropriate sexism into this thing.'' the Diadem looked at the Locket, but gestured the Diary.

''What did we put in this one?'' Diadem, Locket, and Diary stared at the Cup.

''Our already non-existent sex drive?'' Cup lightly shrugged. Pause. Then: ''And our really good Mrs. Cole impressions.'' Then his voice turned disappointed and slurred: ''Tom Riddle, I'm not angry at you for being a devil spawn, I'm angry at God for putting you, out of all of the orphanages on this world, in MY care!''

''It's like I'm back there.'' Diary said, nodding. Locket and Diadem applauded: ''That's Mrs Cole all right.''

* * *

Narcissa went to the deep bowels of Gringotts, accompanied by a goblin designated to the Lestrange vaults, and ran her fingers over her drawn wand. A horcrux, she thought grimly, in my own sister's vault. Why didn't she tell me? Why did I have to find out from Lord Nott?

Trapped in her thoughts about whys and wheres and whos, Narcissa was liberated by familiar shouts.

''WHERE _IS_ IT?!''

''How does it look like?''

''A bloody cup! Goblet thing-y.''

Sounds of gold being thrown about in search of something. Angry sputtering. Cup after cup after cup of being thrown out of the vault, led to even more shouting. ''It's not here!''

''Listen, I'm certain that it is, but we first need to calm down.''

''Don't tell me what to do, I'm not the blood traitor!''

''All right.'' _the_ voice of Narcissa's childhood said, cool as ice. ''I'm leaving.''

''I'm sorry, wait, **wait**! I didn't mean to snap at you. I'm new to this whole pro-equality thing, Dro.''

Narcissa marched up to the vault's doors, took her wand out, and shot a hex at Bellatrix.

The General dodged, but fell into piles of galleons. ''Cissa!''

Narcissa looked at Andromeda and was rendered speechless. The sight of her took her back to their childhood. The last time they'd all spoken had been right before her elopement. Andromeda hadn't told Narcissa of her intentions. Bellatrix hadn't come to Narcissa after escaping Azkaban. Neither had told the youngest of their ploy to take the horcrux from the vault.

Narcissa scoffed and counted to ten very, _very_ slowly.

'' _Explain_. _''_ Narcissa Black ordered, her voice like liquid imperius.

So, they did.

And Narcissa listened.

But she was confused: ''Wait, why isn't the cup here, then?''

The goblin designated to the Lestrange vaults tentatively raised a hand and said that he may know what had happened to the cup.

Bellatrix Lestrange took out her wand. The tip of it glowed currant and she approached, splitting her face in a very giddy, very pleased smile: ''Oh, goblin, you _best_ know.''

* * *

1979

The goblin designated to the Lestrange vaults accompanied Lord Lestrange and another, cloaked figure as they descended to the vaults of olde, guarded by dragons and top tier wards.

''What has my daughter done to you?''

''That chit that's married into your family has, like all Blacks before her, refused to know her rightful place, Redmond.''

''Is it a _secret_ , my lord?'' Redmond Lestrange purred, his lips quirked in a small, playful smirk.

The Lord looked at Lord Lestrange and willed him into seriousness. This appeared to be no laughing matter.

''I gave her something of mine to guard because I trusted her.'' The Lord said. Lord Lestrange listened intensely. ''My trust in her has been misplaced. For this I have only myself to blame.''

Lord Lestrange looked at the cloaked Lord and watched him closely. He pursed his lips into a bemused smile and asked: ''What could she have possibly done to earn this type of treatment?''

''If you must know-''

''Oh I **must**!'' Redmond Lestrange was a gossip. He liked to know things before anyone else did and revelled in holding information closely to his chest and his mouth.

''-she put amortentia in my drink, listen to this Lestrange,'' the Lord laughed, but it wasn't mirthful or amicable laughter, it was more along the lines of that laughter someone laughed when they felt like they hadn't expected the unfortunate events that had unfortunately happened, ''because she thought that she would be helping me! _Helping_ me! Have you ever heard such slander, such absolute idiocy?''

Lord Lestrange squinted. ''I am going to tell you something, and you are not allowed to get offended because right now you need my help.''

The Lord rolled his (crimson?) eyes and exhaled frustration: ''Fine. I promise not to curse you.''

''Good. You, my lord, come from the muggle world.''

''I hadn't known that, Redmond, this is an eye-opener.''

''This is why people do not tell you things, my lord.''

''No, _fine_. I am listening. Go on.''

''We have known each other since 1938 and it is my duty to tell you, as one of your Knights, that you do not know a single thing about pureblood culture.''

The Lord kind of turned around and pointed a finger at Lord Lestrange. The goblin designated to the Lestrange vaults grew fearful of the energy manifesting between them. The cloaked Lord shoved the cloak off and the goblin did not gasp because that was unprofessional, but Lord Voldemort looked very offended.

''I have _painstakingly_ learned what all of your cutlery is for.''

''...That is basic etiquette.''

Quietly: ''Redmond, I come from fucking Woolwich.'' a little louder next: ''Anyway, let us go back to the witch.''

''Yes, exactly.'' They got to the vault, having moved past a sleeping dragon. The goblin opened the vault with the proffered key and kept his mouth shut.

''You are defending Bellatrix, then.''

''Whose hair did she put in the amortentia?'' Lestrange asked, ''Was it hers? Because if it was hers I am going to side with you. It is in poor sport for a married woman to meddle so. If she is going to have an affair it may as well be overt like all affairs in Twenty-Eight circles. Otherwise it shows a certain level of déclassé, you understand.''

'' _Honestly_ , Redmond, this is all rich people nonsense to me.''

Lestrange then muttered something about being right.

''It was Abraxas' hair.''

''Abraxas told her to do that?''

''No. No, if that were the case I would be furious with Abraxas. Well, both of them, but it wasn't Abraxas. It was **her** _brilliantly thought out_ idea.''

''Do you know that married couples that have been married for a long time often realise they do not like each other as well as they did. Then they drink a shot of amortentia every morning.'' Lestrange calmly explained.

''What kind of-''

''It stems from that belief that divorce is shameful and that waiting each other's deaths is always a better alternative than being happy.''

''Redmond, do _you_ -''

''Oh, I drink it on the gallon nowadays. At every meal. When her mother comes over I drink twice as much. I've become addicted to it. Rabastan and Rodolphus have grown and I am going to slowly leave to my French retreat to go 'hunting'.''

''It is 1979, man. Divorce.''

''Rabastan isn't married yet and the pool of available debutants narrows considerably when the bachelor comes from a broken home. See, my lord, you do not understand pureblood culture. Bellatrix was simply trying to help you remain on good terms with Abraxas because she sensed tension. Lucius, if he were a dutiful son, would have done this ages ago for you two both.''

The goblin designated to the Lestrange vaults remembered that Lord Voldemort's face in that key moment of realisation was absolutely terrifying, and priceless to look at. He could not place the emotion swirling upon the canvas which was the Lord's face.

''Redmond...''

''Yes, my lord?''

''Just get me that cup.''

Lord Lestrange, being who he was, could override any and all wards placed on a Lestrange vault. He entered Bellatrix Lestrange's vault with his Lord and they left with a cup.

''What is the cup?''

''A priceless family heirloom.''

''Oh, what a lovely lie from an orphan without such things. I shall not press if you do not want to say. Though, now my imagination is running wild and I presume it is a lover's gift you are hiding.''

''Yes, Redmond, this is my secret beau's gift.'' Lord Voldemort deadpanned and held the cup in a vice, unfaltering grip.

''I would not be too harsh on Bellatrix, my lord. She was doing what she thought was best for you. Cygnus and Druella have been drinking amortentia ever since their daughter has shamed them. Thank Merlin for amortentia, am I right?'' Lestrange elbowed Lord Voldemort.

If the goblin's memory was to be believed Lord Voldemort looked on the verge of smashing the cup against Lord Lestrange's face.

Coincidentally enough, Lord Redmond Lestrange did die in the War the following day. A stray killing curse shot him in the back. The Death Eaters said it was the aurors and the aurors said it wasn't any of theirs.

* * *

Bellatrix, Andromeda, and Narcissa looked between each other, then at the goblin, and then back to each other.

''All right, but where did he take it, then?''

''Your guess is as good as mine.'' Bellatrix shrugged.

''This is a waste of valuable time.'' Andromeda said. ''My husband is with that child of yours, Bellatrix, and I need to check if Ted is all right.''

''Barty is _harmless_.'' Bellatrix, not harmless at all, said about a Death Eater that had gleefully helped her torture the Longbottoms to insanity.

''Barty?'' Narcissa mouthed. ''Crouch?'' she voiced. Both sisters nodded. Her nose wrinkled in an unladylike fashion: ''That one has daddy issues.''

Andromeda guffawed at Narcissa's statement.

Bellatrix followed, slapping her knee. She wore a muggle tracksuit she'd borrowed from Andromeda as anything was better than that rag, muggle or no.

Narcissa was the last to join her sisters, her face lighting up in a light that she hadn't dared dream of for a long, long time.

The Black sisters sat on gold together. Their laughter intertwined like a beautiful siren's song.

* * *

Barty Crouch and Ted Tonks played cards.

''You got any kings?''

''Go fish.''

''Ah damn it.''

* * *

''BELLATRIX LESTRANGE HAS ESCAPED FROM AZKABAN!'' Moody shouted from the fireplace in Grimmauld place he'd just now floo'd from.

''Good for her.'' Walburga Black's portrait said. Moody sent a hex her way and she dodged it by leaving from her portrait.

Sirius Black, eternal resident at Grimmauld place, shrugged and said: ''Fuck it.''

Remus Lupin, Tonks, Harry Potter, and Ron Weasley, who were all busy playing exploding snap, snapped their attention to Moody.

''This kind of behaviour cannot stand. The Death Eaters are _doing things._ They need to be monitored. I bet that she has gone to Narcissa Malfoy and is hiding in Malfoy Manor (meanwhile the Black sisters had all gone to Andromeda's for tea). All of you are here - what are you doing?'' Moody's electric blue eye scrutinized them, shaming them in the process: ''Are you having fun? _FUN_? This is disallowed. Harry Potter, lad, I thought I taught you better than this. While Voldemort breathes there is no time for fun only-''

''Constant vigilance.'' Tonks, Harry, Remus, Sirius and Ron chorused. Even Walburga Black's voice from another portrait in the home could be heard chorusing. She spent time in Orion's portrait sometimes, but usually she couldn't be tracked down to Grimmauld place at all. Sirius didn't think much of it, but Moody didn't like that he didn't know where she went. Because this was a security breach. Everyone told him it was his paranoia talking, to which Moody replied that his paranoia had kept him alive during the War and that everyone else was too relaxed.

Dumbledore arrived then, also through floo. He brushed off the soot from the fireplace from his magenta robe and said in a voice tinged ever-so-slightly with discomfort: ''Abraxas Malfoy has been admitted to St. Mungo's. His condition is critical.''

''Dingo dong the bitch is dead.'' Sirius clapped along with Remus and Tonks.

''That man's too stupid to die even if he got killed!'' Walburga Black's voice screeched. Sirius couldn't help but laugh, and then felt very angry because his mother made him laugh and how dare she?

Moody went to look for where she was, yielding to his paranoia.

Harry greeted Dumbledore. The elderly wizard sat down in an armchair and cupped his head in his hands. One was a very dark shade of rotting. It did contrast his magenta robe, though. That was the only upside to dying terribly.

''I have gravely miscalculated.''

''What do you mean, sir?''

''Harry, I am not a good man by any means. But I try to think of the bigger picture when I do the things I am forced to do.'' Dumbledore confessed. Harry furrowed his brows and sat on the arm of the armchair, gently patting Dumbledore. His grandfather-figure spoke: ''I thought of a way to perhaps, lessen your burden with Voldemort.''

''All right, that's amazing, how?''

''Well, you see. The only reason way I even got Gellert to agree to that duel is because he and I were more than friends.''

''What, like brothers?''

''No, Harry. Not like brothers. The complete opposite of brothers.''

''Mortal enemies.''

''Harry, **dear boy**.'' Dumbledore sighed.

''They were _fucking_.'' Sirius shouted crudely. Harry blushed and stammered out an apology.

''Wait _you_ and _Wizard Hitler_?'' Harry, once he got over his initial shock, couldn't believe his ears.

''Do you know how _few_ queer people there were in my life then? Rarer than unicorns, Harry. Than unicorns!''

''All right, fair.'' Harry nodded. He pushed his hands into his pockets and waited for Dumbledore to circle back to the initial topic. He needn't wait long.

''So, I tried to endear myself to Abraxas Malfoy. Though, I may have simply gotten on his nerves unnecessarily. I was under the impression that Voldemort, wherever he was, would come to a lover's call. Because he and Abraxas have a complex relationship. He is the first man to love Voldemort, Harry. Surely that counted for something, I thought.''

''You thought that like you and Grindelwald this matter could be solved through a duel between them? Sir, that's preposterous.'' Harry said. ''There's a prophecy about me and Voldemort.''

''Yes, Harry, there is. There is also a prophecy about me and Voldemort. Gellert foresaw it during the duel. I am going to be be killed by Voldemort.'' Albus raised his cursed hand and wheezed out the next few sentences, growing exhausted. His shoulders slumped. He closed his eyes and took off his spectacles to twirl between his fingers as a way to ground himself.

''Harry,'' he opened his eyes and met them with _green_. In them he saw death and then had to blink back to reality. ''I was wrong.''

''What?''

''I was wrong about many things concerning your living arrangements and your relatives. I'm sorry, Harry.'' Dumbledore confessed. ''I am.''

''Sir, you needn't apologise about anything.'' Harry said, uncomfortably.

Albus Dumbledore smiled kindly at the Boy-Who-Lived and was about to say something more when Tonks's, Harry's, Ron's, and Moody's wands buzzed. It was the equivalent of being called into duty.

''WE GO TO ST. MUNGO'S!'' Moody shouted and ushered his aurors like a German shepherd herded sheep.

''Ten galleons it's Abraxas Malfoy's fault.'' Sirius said.

''TWENTY-SEVEN THOUSAND GALLEONS IT'S ABRAXAS MALFOY'S FAULT!'' Walburga Black shouted, having returned from her hiding place now to cause havoc. Moody glared at her and made the 'I'm watching you' gesture with his fingers.

When the aurors arrived to St. Mungo's, there they saw pandemonium strike. Severus Snape was holding a wand to Mandy Leach's throat. Thoros Nott was holding a wand conjuring fiendfyre to Mandy's face. Most would agree that her eyes were crimson because of the fiendfyre reflecting in her eyes. Most people would be wrong. Her bracelet had seven charms: an owl, a snake, a badger, a cup, a small book, a crown, a locket.

People screamed. Healers protected the patients and waited for help. Theodore Nott looked at his father with confusion and fear dancing a waltz in his eyes. ''Dad?''

''Theodore,'' Thoros didn't leave his eyes from Mandy Leach's unapologetic face of indifference for their pain. For the possible loss of a father, a father-figure, and a brother in all but blood (though, given the incest of pureblood families, Thoros could claim Abraxas was his brother).

''Dad, what are you doing?''

Severus Snape closed the door of the room, telling Mr. Nott to leave and that they didn't wish anyone harm. That all they wanted was a chance to save Abraxas Malfoy's life. That Mandy Sullivan was withholding valuable information and disproving her title as Healer.

Abraxas Malfoy lay on a bed in the room and Lucius found himself gravitating towards it, shakily taking his cool hand and wishing he would wake up. His heartbeat was gone, but his magical signature remained faintly active. When that disappeared, only then could a magical being called properly dead.

''Madame Sullivan,'' Thoros Nott spoke and this was a Death Eater. This was a Knight of Walpurgis that had committed war crimes and had then turned traitor so his son could have a father out of Azkaban. This was a man that had killed many a muggleborn like her. This was a man that stared at Mandy Sullivan's marked face and refused to give her the satisfaction. His wand moved towards the bracelet and she didn't protect it, she didn't even budge.

Severus twirled her wand. She'd outed her intentions by taking the horcruxes, leaving supposedly for Abraxas' room, and then trying to disapparate. Lucius had shot first, splinching her in the process.

She bled profusely from an open wound on her head. Her grey hair was caked with blood. Thoros had cast a spell to keep her aware. Everything else had to be earned by giving information. How easy was it to revert back to such a mindset of an interrogator. How easy was it to envision himself alongside Bellatrix Lestrange, putting prisoners in line and playing good-auror to her anything-but.

''What is necessary for Abraxas Malfoy's revival and cure?''

''Wouldn't know, nor do I care to find out.'' Mandy Sullivan smiled at them three. She turned her gaze from Thoros Nott's serious eyes and watched Abraxas Malfoy's still form. The glamour had fallen. The makeup had been washed away. He stood bare to the world, dressed in a hospital gown, deep scars littering his skin like an intricate stitch pattern on a sweater. His hair was greyer than platinum blond. All she could think was: good riddance.

It was Severus Snape that spoke before Thoros could burn Mandy to a crisp. ''We won't learn anything through torture. You, yourself have realised that people lie more often than tell the truth. Especially if they don't know the information. And those that do can lie through it.''

Lucius had abandoned look-out duty altogether to sit next to his father. He bit his lip and tried not to cry. He placed his hand over his father's and squeezed it.

''Oh, then what do we do? Do you carry veritaserum on you? Can you breach her mind, now that it is guarded by _four_ horcruxes?'' Thoros Nott mocked. _''Think!''_

Severus did not, sadly, carry veritaserum on his person. Nor could he use legilimency on Mandy Leach. He gripped Mandy's wand (ebony and dragon heartstrings) and sneered at her: ''It is not noble what you are doing-'' he was cut off by her laughing in his face.

''A Death Eater is telling me about what is noble and what is not? Your mere existence speaks of hatefulness.''

''Yet you are defending our leader whom is the most hateful. What say you to that?''

Mandy's eyes crinkled with knowledge of things the men surrounding her desperately wished to know. But didn't. And she took great joy in this. ''No comment.''

There was power in silence. Much greater than any insult.

''Three armed Death Eaters can't defeat a wounded, disarmed woman that has no experience in combat. How saddening.'' Mandy grinned, her shoulders shaking and her eyes glowing red, red, red, red, _red_.

The closed door opened. Red hair. Wands. Auror badges. Moody, Tonks, and Ron Weasley had come first to the scene. Mandy Sullivan shouted for help, her eyes brown, the horcruxes easing their hold on her, feeding her lines as master actors themselves: ''Help, please. They've taken me hostage. My name is Mandy Leach, please, please help me. I'm injured. They've taken my wand. Please!''

Severus Snape looked to a pale Thoros Nott that fully understood how all of this looked like. He dropped his wand and raised his arms. Severus followed suit. Mandy didn't go for her wand because she was playing the part of a distressed victim. Distressed victims weren't rational enough to make such snap decisions. Tonks came to her aid, bringing her her wand and telling her everything was going to be all right.

She blubbered and stuttered and cried, calling her attackers monsters. ''P-p-p-p-please.'' When she hid from view of the aurors her eyes were red as she stared at Thoros Nott.

''Incarcerous.'' Ron cast on Lucius Malfoy. He took some joy in knowing that he was putting Draco Malfoy's terrorist father away. Moody took down Snape and whispered about being right that he could not stay away from the dark arts for long. That he was loyal to their side and not the Order. Snape floundered for an undignified explanation, but cut himself off halfway through, asking for Dumbledore. Lucius asked to see his solicitor, knowing his rights.

Thoros Nott. Thoros Nott couldn't speak. All of the words in his throat died. Tonks apprehended him, but he saw Harry Potter questioning his son. He saw Theodore trying to explain, to salvage what could not be salvaged. Thoros Nott couldn't form words to comfort his only child staring at him in disbelief, as if unwilling to see that his father could ever attack someone.

''Theodore.'' Finally, Thoros found the strength and shamelessness to address his son. Maybe if he just saw his son, maybe then he could convince himself that without Abraxas Malfoy's influence he could get out of this – that he could survive as he had in 1981.

But Theodore looked away.

And Moody happily told them their rights.

Thoros' hands shook, but Tonks didn't let him go. Her hair switched to bubblegum pink as she winked at the patients and said that everything wall all right. That the bad guys had been taken in and they could be at ease. Moody then yelled that nobody could ever be truly at ease. Harry left Theodore to help out with the arrests.

Mandy Leach stood back in Abraxas Malfoy's room. Once everyone had left her, ensuring that she'd been healed and taken care of, she leisurely came to Abraxas' bed and loomed above it. Her fingers _twirled_ her wand and her eyes glowed red. The Locket spoke through, spitting acid: ''I think it's time I speed this process up, _Lord_ Malfoy.''


	24. Surprise Bitch III

Abraxas was nowhere yet everywhere at the same time. This irritated him immensely because he usually liked to occupy one spot at a time, as any other human being.

His feet dragged his body along aimlessly through the nothingless stretching into infinity, melding with the unviewable horizon. For how long he walked like this, Abraxas couldn't say, but then he ran into the sight of his father, Hyperion. But it wasn't really his father, because the voice was a tad different. Doubled, tripled, as if many spoke through this being.

''Abraxas Hyperion Malfoy, you of fairy blood, are allowed one last privilege others can only dream of.''

''It's nothing I'm not used to.'' Abraxas Malfoy smiled. His magic thrummed contently in his chest. There were no mirrors around, but if there were he would be able to see how his hair had turned white and how his skin had mended, how in this space he could exist painlessly.

The being looked at him and said, simply: ''Convince me.''

''Excuse me?''

''Convince me to let you go back to the living world.''

Abraxas thrust his hands into pockets of a white robe that had manifested on him against his will because he had never worn something so plain in his entire life. ''Well, I don't _really_ want to die. I mean, do not misunderstand me, I will if I have to...''

''This is valid. However, you were practically dead already. A constant living in pain does not a happy life constitute. The highlight of your day was when you would go to sleep.''

''My family-''

''Has already mourned you in the 1980s and is ready for you to pass. Of course, they will be sad, but it will have been expected.''

Abraxas nodded, faintly aware that this was true. But then, like a sledgehammer a thought knocked these thoughts of compliance out of his mind: _''Draco_.'' With a new sort of fire only freshly formed ice could bring, he spoke back: ''I refuse to die until I have made sure Draco is safe.''

''You _refuse_ to die?'' The being blinked, Hyperion's face split in an ugly, unnaturally wide smile that was more reserved for monsters than humans. ''It is perhaps, Abraxas Malfoy, that you appear to misunderstand your role in this conversation. It is my say in the end. So, just focus on convincing me. Few do.''

Unabashed: ''It is my life that is on the line. Or rather, my right to a life. Therefore, with all due respect, I shall speak however I like.''

The smile, somehow, seemed to stretch. His father's face contorted disgustedly, but Abraxas reigned his thoughts in by staring into the strangest silver eyes he had ever gazed into. They were nearly white.

''When I go back, '' the being muttered something about optimists being repulsive, ''I'm going to give back more to _the community._ ''

''Oh no, **no**.'' the being said and waved about Hyperion's arms, shuddering and gagging: ''I am not going to sit here and listen to a politician's speech. I could be listening to Nobby Leach doing it much more convincingly.''

''Question: was Walburga Black given a chance to convince you?''

''No.''

''I bet she took that swimmingly.''

''I'm a tad deaf on this side.'' the being gestured the top of Hyperion's head. Abraxas didn't comment. ''Now,'' the being said, ''your last chance to convince me.''

Abraxas shrugged. He thought. For a while. ''I'm not afraid of you, Death…'' Then a bit of a pause. ''You are Death, right? You're not some secretary type to filter us out?'' Death nodded, saying that working with others wasn't a strong suit. Abraxas went on: ''I have come to terms with my mortality since I was fifteen. Death does not frighten me, nor does it pose as some end to me.''

''Bold of you to assume there is an afterlife.''

''Isn't there?''

''Well, you're allowed to exist...though, still, very bold.''

''Thank you. Now.'' Abraxas wrung his hands together and carefully spoke, choosing each word with incredible care. ''As far as I'm concerned you can fuck off with your convictions because the only reason I can think of to live right now is so I can finish my business with DiaTom and kill _Daft_ ledore. Another is to ensure Draco's safety, but then again.'' Abraxas made an iffy gesture with his hand, ''Narcissa has things handled and she's the most efficient woman on this planet, so I'm not nearly as torn up over Draco being missing. He's not dead is he?'' Death said no. ''OK, good. Thank you.''

Death went to say something, Abraxas spoke over it: ''I initially began to cooperate with DiaTom because he promised to cure me, but as I keep circling back to that nonsense it's so much less work if I just die than to go back with my illness in tow, kill Dumbledore whilst _sober,_ then live with myself afterwards. That is… a lot of work for one dying wizard who has nothing to live for. Say Draco is returned, I'm cured, and then what will I do? I'm already a billionaire. There's honestly not much else I want to do with my life. I'm in that Guiness book of records for most owned peafowls. My legacy is secure. In 1980, before getting poisoned, I had a painting commissioned to be erected in Malfoy Manor after my death, all Malfoys look into this painting nonsense much earlier. Tom apparently let me have this before deigning to poison me, how considerate... Draco says he wants it near his room and that seems like a fun place, across from a window looking out to my garden...''

Death stared at him. Looking conflicted. Abraxas knew that face to be Hyperion's very scared very I miscalculated very why did my son derail me like this face. ''Are you… refusing to … live now?''

''Honestly, upon reflection I deem life too much effort. Bring me the sweet release of death.''

''You could have died _so many_ times before. Yet you always clung to life with unfaltering force...''

''Yes, but I'm still under the impression of Samhain. My will for life depletes itself during this period. So, yes. I want to die.'' Abraxas grinned, placing a fist to his hip and waiting expectantly.

''The 180 degree turn which this conversation has suffered has given me whiplash.'' Death whispered, cupped head in hands, avoidant of making eye contact with Abraxas.

''Being the most privileged of the privileged, naturally, means that any opportunity I have been given that others could only dream of, as you so said, will be squandered heedlessly. Now, then, Death, lead on, won't you?''

Death did, whilst looking at Abraxas in disbelief.

There was a door that sprung up out of nothing.

Abraxas opened it and thanked Death. Next he checked if there were any hard feelings between them.

''No, rest assured that you can enjoy your existence without my ire raining upon you.''

Abraxas nodded and the moment he crossed into this new space he felt _bliss_.

His body relaxed as he looked around his new home. A large garden swirled into existence. Peacocks and peahens lined his vision and went to greet him, gently cawing at him and circling his feet like cats that wanted to greet their owner. Among them was a white peacock that Abraxas knew, somewhere deep in his mind, that couldn't be Flocon de Neige, but this thought was thrown out quickly enough. The moment Abraxas ruffled their feathers fondly he was knocked down to the soft grass, laughing.

He closed his eyes and for the first time in seventeen years felt truly at peace.

''Abraxas!''

He opened his eyes and silver saw silver.

Hyperion Malfoy outstretched his hands to hug him, and Abraxas cried out helplessly opening up his hands: ''Dad!'' They embraced and Abraxas felt like he would never, ever let go of his father again. This only cemented his belief that he had made the right choice. Death _was_ the answer! Screw anyone that ever propagated the beauty of life. Life, Abraxas thought as he cried into his father's shoulder, gripping him tightly and hearing him, being with him, finally, finally, finally allowing himself reprieve: Life was one long game of suffering.

''I am so proud of you, Abraxas.'' Hyperion's soft voice spoke, the only sound in this world, ''You have done so much, and gone through so many horrible things...you deserve this.''

Abraxas blinked tears away and nodded, believing these words wholeheartedly. ''I do.'' With more conviction next: ''I _do_ deserve this!''

Their surroundings switched. The grass turned to marble. The hedges turned to walls. Chairs and sofas appeared. On one of them was a reclined Tom Riddle, dressed in trousers and a shirt. He lazed about and used magic to feed him grapes like some Roman god.

''Tom?''

''Mhm? Oh, Abraxas, wonderful. Come, sit. Sit.'' Tom moved into a sitting position and gestured the freed up space next to him. Abraxas sat and eyed Tom's wardrobe, asking after it. Tom's reply was instant: ''Leach gave me some of his to borrow.''

''Leach?''

''Yes, Nobby Leach. Our Minister for Magic. You know Leach, he got you a peahen for your birthday last year.''

Abraxas furrowed his brow. ''Isn't he dead?''

''What? _No_ , whatever gave you that idea?'' Tom laughed and pressed his lips gently against Abraxas'. He tasted of grapes and ease. Ease? From Tom Marvolo Riddle? Abraxas moved uncomfortably on the sofa. Hyperion was talking with Draco, safe and sound, the both of them. Draco called him great-grandfather and Hyperion's face lit up.

''I could have sworn he'd died.'' Abraxas whispered, not remembering why he had thought such a grim thought. ''In 1968. I think...''

''Abraxas, it's 1998 and Leach is very much alive.''

''He's _still_ Minister?'' Abraxas floundered. Tom laughed at him. There wasn't a hint of disdain or patronization. This was definitely odd, but the more Abraxas thought the less he could figure out why this was.

''No, Abbie, he was Minister twice and he's running now again after a lengthy pause. Hermione Granger is his apprentice. You should see the minx, thinks herself the next Minister. Leach is amused by her.''

''Hermione will make a fine Minister.'' Abraxas nodded. Yes, this made sense. Hermione and Nobby Leach working together. Yes. He nodded again. All of this made perfect sense.

''If Leach doesn't run against her because he can't get over himself. Vain man, that Nob of ours.'' Another voice said. Abraxas turned and saw Mandy Leach shrugging her cramped, tense shoulders. She had a tea cup in her hand, the string of the bag stood out. Abraxas wrinkled his nose distastefully at people who drank tea from bags, like some efficient peasants.

She took the tea bag and counted under her breath as she dipped the bag five times in succession. Once this was finished, only then could she take a sip.

''Mandy and her world saving anxieties.'' Tom snorted, teasing more than cruel.

Mandy took the tea bag and threw it at Tom.

''This is the most British attack I've ever witnessed.'' he laughed, catching the tea bag and vanishing it.

''Wait?'' Abraxas remembered through haze a war that had happened. ''Wasn't there a war of some kind during the 1970s?''

''No, of course not. Why would there be a war?'' Mandy and Tom answered in unison. Abraxas rubbed his head and wondered why his memories weren't lining up with the world he found himself in. Gaps formed in his mind and a voice, a _force_ ushered him to relinquish his hold on the wrong world. To listen to everything happening in this world and accept without question.

''I wouldn't know...''

Tom placed a comforting hand on his back and rubbed a few circles, telling him that maybe he should go sleep. ''I'll follow you up in a bit.''

''Aren't we going to the movies?'' Mandy wondered.

''Oh, right!'' Tom snapped his fingers. ''Jurassic Park. Abraxas, didn't you say you wanted to see Jurassic Park... there's a special screening tonight.'' What a coincidence. _Gee_. It appeared that as if all the things Abraxas liked were happening simultaneously to him.

Abraxas went to see Jurassic Park with Mandy Leach, Tom Riddle, and then - _then-_ **the crème de la crème arrived** :

Nobby Leach.

Abraxas felt like his legs were cut off. His eyes glued to the sight. His breath slowed to a halt, but his heart seemed to speed up.

The Minister wore a black muggle suit and spoke on a giant brick. Abraxas focused his vision and it was a mobile phone. It had a little antenna, too.

His voice. The same voice that spoke back to pureblood toxicity. The same voice that inspired hundreds upon hundreds of wizards and witches. ''Of course. Yes.'' The same laughter that put everyone at ease and never allowed any of his voters to feel like they were second class citizens. This was the man that slammed a hammer into an ice wall and when told to halt, simply said that he had ideas that needed implementing.

Abraxas remembered that Walburga Black had mocked Nobby Leach's speeches with a derogatory: '' _Nobby Leach and his **ideas**_!''

Slowly he approached, as if never late nor early at any meeting. His fingers eased their hold on the phone as he handed the phone to Tom Riddle, ''My PR, Tom Riddle, will take over from here, Madame.''

''Hello?'' Tom Riddle practically purred, already putting up walls around his real personality. Goodness forbid any of that bleed through. Abraxas was surrounded by politicians and for the first time he did not mind such a thing.

Leach shook his head painfully, his movements sluggish from exhaustion that he allowed sometimes to seep through. As if he trusted Abraxas enough to do so. How odd. How strange! He greeted Abraxas with a smile and told him he was happy that they could all make it. ''Next time bring Antoinette and Lilith.''

''Sure.'' Abraxas meekly whispered, unaccustomed to being in Leach's presence.

In the cinema. Mandy Leach sat next to Nobby Leach who sat next to Tom Riddle who sat next to Abraxas Malfoy. Abraxas spent more time staring at Jeff Goldblum than he did looking at the dinosaurs. It was time well spent, he thought. Tom leaned on Leach, muttering something to him. The politician drew out smiles from Tom.

Mandy picked apart the popcorn carefully and ate very slowly, chewing a certain number of times. Abraxas didn't know how she managed that. Then he recalled that his neurosis was buying peafowls whenever he got stressed and clamped his mouth shut, electing to stay in his lane.

Abraxas leaned close to Tom and asked him about his horcruxes, where they were and how many he had made.

Tom narrowed his eyes and told Abraxas to just mind the film and enjoy himself. ''Stop thinking about inane things, Abraxas.''

''Right. I shall.'' Abraxas whispered and felt compelled to do as told.

The film ended on a happy note and Tom and Abraxas retired to Malfoy Manor.

''Tom?'' Abraxas asked. His fingers curled around the linen. This was not his linen. This was strange linen. He ran a hand across it again and thought: Oh no. This was poor people linen.

''Mh?'' Tom said, midway to changing into a sleeping robe and joining him. ''What?''

''Do you love me?'' Abraxas tested.

''Would I be here if I didn't?'' At least the evasiveness of original Tom Riddle could be likened to this one. Abraxas remembered how Tom Riddle had once said that he wouldn't answer such a question without a lawyer present. It'd been said as a joke, but it'd been still said.

''Perhaps you would.'' Abraxas said. ''Perhaps you would feel like you didn't really have anywhere else to be.''

Tom didn't say anything to that. Only: ''You're acting strangely today.''

''Am I?''

‘'Yes.''

Abraxas began to wonder if he'd made the right decision of choosing to live this lie. This was a flaw in the grand scheme of things, he thought whilst trying to drift off to sleep. Tom pressed against him. He ought to be happy, oughtn't he? This was everything he had ever wanted, wasn't it?

Abraxas went to sleep, Tom Riddle draping an arm possessively around him. He held it close and slept. This was ridiculous, he thought. He couldn't be happy with whatever was happening to him. All right, so things were a tad different here, so what! So bloody what! It didn't mean that his real life was any better. Maybe if he allowed himself time to process how weird everything was here he could forget and accept that this was how things were.

He stirred in bed and turned his back to Tom Riddle, shrugging his arm away.

This was fine!

Abraxas kicked at the many, many blankets that Tom Riddle liked to sleep with because ever since 1942 he'd always been cold. His hands were rather hot, though. Abraxas touched them. He felt an odd ring over Tom's ring finger? Tom hadn't worn a ring since he'd made that ring of his family's into a horcrux.

He stirred again and turned back to face Tom, but instead of faint crimson eyes he was met with Black and a scream tore from his mouth, so loud and terrified that the fabric of this existence _split_.

* * *

''I have reason to believe I have met Death.'' Merrythought whispered to her pupil. ''She looked at me, guised as my dead spinster aunt, and told me that my existence was disrespectful.''

''All right.'' Tom Riddle hoarsely whispered. This was not all right at all. At any mention of Death he grew antsy. His shoulders tensed. His Adam's apple bobbed with uncertainty, and a grip of anxiety overwhelmed him.

''I believe that she meant the horcruxes, Tom. I _know_ she did.'' Merrythought, antsy, switched her weight from one foot to the other, looking at her wedding ring. ''The ice that burrowed deep within my bones, lad. It cannot be likened to any cold.''

''Ice?'' Tom Riddle tasted the word on his lips, finding the notion of being cold very, very familiar. He had two warming charms on his person as they spoke. ''You feel it, too, then?''

''Not often.'' Merrythought admitted. A harrow expression crossed her as her voice turned raspy with all of the implications of that: ''But do you think it means she's watching us?''

''No.'' Tom Riddle said. ''No, I don't think that. Death surely has better things to do?''

* * *

Death, meanwhile, was on a Greek island with Alexio because neither had better things to do.

''So, Abraxas chose to die is what you're saying?'' Alexio, sitting on a chair made up of petrified people, pat a basilisk and asked, finding the idea of choosing to die unfathomable. He was over two thousand years old and didn't have any inclinations of stopping.

''Who does that?!'' Death asked, pacing furiously. Alexio listened to the voice of the intricate, ageless being. Death was true to him with her words because Death needn't switch forms as Alexio could not see beyond her magic. Death vented: ''Who chooses to die when met with the option to go back and live? I was trying to convince him to choose to die because that's how the game goes! He didn't even _try_. And now my favourite show has finished. Watching Abraxas from time to time has brought me so much positive confusion at the human race. Plus, he was going to figure out Voldemort soon!''

''Your plots at getting at Voldemort are becoming worse and worse as the years go by.'' Alexio said, as if discussing a shared television programme. Well, to him the life and not-dying of Lord Voldemort were kind of like a soap opera. One that Death didn't like and ranted about.

''Everything was going smoothly.''

''Was it, now?''

''Listen. I allow people to make one horcrux. Fine. They can do that. Less people for me to process. _Fine_.''

It had taken Death one thousand and fifty-four years to get over Alexio's mere existence. It had helped that he serenaded her with poems that followed the iambic pentameter perfectly.

''Even that Merrythought Galatea can be excused because she has full intentions of coming to you for aid of reabsorption. This is polite and tolerable. But _Voldemort_!''

Alexio breathed: ''Here we go again.'' and continued to pet the snakes that had come to listen to his mindless ranting. They couldn't see or hear Death so they thought him strange and mentally-absent.

''I did not expect him to _want_ to die.'' Death whispered, voice turning into a mockery of assuredness. Alexio did not comment on the bold and indestructible being falling into a canyon of disbelief. ''I had placed my stakes on his returning. On his being manipulated by that Diadem. On his killing _that man._ ''

''Which man?''

''Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, Alexio, do keep track of all my machinations. There aren't many. Only a few million at a time.''

Alexio wheezed through his nose at the number. The basilisk coiled playfully around his arms and nudged its head to be pet. He continued running his hand across its whole form.

''For the past, oh, I'd say month or so, he's been in possession of all three of the Hallows.'' Death spoke bitterly of the shackles formed from her own gullibility. The Peverell brothers were a long, long time ago. Yet their lasting mark on the world remained as Death's bane.

''But he has not touched them all at the same time, has he?'' Alexio slowed his petting and at the snake's hiss resumed, hissing back at it for patience.

''No. This is why he is not my Master.'' Disgustedly Death said the word. The words cut through the air dangerously. Alexio waited until the swirling maelstrom of magic calmed.

''So, you wanted Abraxas to survive. You even offered him a chance to go back.''

''All fairy blooded wizards and witches have a chance to go back. I did not make any special allowance for him. They're supposed to convince me and I'm supposed to say no a few times and then there's supposed to be a valiant speech how much they need to go back and how if I allow them to go back they'll be grateful and promise to be dutiful citizens of a world governed by my rule - etc, etc. Abraxas had foregone the speech and decided to die.''

''What a legend...''

''Alexio, take this seriously!''

''Death, please, calm down.''

''I can't calm down because _soon_ , **soon** , **_soon_**!'' Death screamed, raising up her hands in the air and shouting aloud. ''That man's iron will has to crumble and I refuse! Hear me now universe for I refuse to let Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore rule me. Both the Elder Wand and the Resurrection Stone compel him to take up the Cloak. I've looked and I've seen and I know that this time will near. He will have me hunt Voldemort and I will have to tell him that a horcrux is binding me from taking him else I would have taken him ages ago. This will lead to some unfortunate conversations between Albus and I and I wish to avoid them completely.''

''So, allow me to understand this.'' Alexio slowly spoke. ''You wanted Abraxas to live because he kills Dumbledore and then you avoid… what? Verbal confrontation?''

''Exactly.''

''Death… I can't believe there was a time I was cripplingly afraid of you.''

''Oh come on. Don't be like that, Alexio, we had fun.''

''Most of our conversations starting out were you threatening me.''

''I wasn't threatening.''

''And demanding I commit suicide in order to end my reign of disrespect against you.''

''Forgive me for never meeting a proper immortal before you.''

''Ah! Such praise!''

''It's just stating facts, Alexio…''

''Death called me a proper immortal!''

''You're the only real immortal. The other two are unmentionable.''

''She called me the best of three!''

''Alexio... ''

''I've never been happier in my life!''

''Alexio, don't make me leave.''

''If you leave will you finally let go of your grudge against Voldemort?''

''Alexio, he has created more horcruxes than have ever been created.''

''You've got to respect that level of idiocy.''

''Who did you use again?'' Death knew, but she needed to switch topics.

''Socrates. Calling me foul smelling snake man, will he? Aristocles wrote it down because Socrates was above writing down his brilliant jabs and thoughts, as you are aware. And it stuck! Herpo the Foul! It _stuck_.''

''Socrates had no magic.''

''No, I ate his tongue and sucked the power of his words through it. It is easier and less… dangerous for your health … if you do not cannibalize a person's body, but rather their magic, but pettiness overrides all other thought when you're willing to kill a person.''

''Voldemort ate a brain once.''

''Yes, you told me. You tell me _everything_ he does because you observe him a lot. Man must be using so many warming charms to survive. Don't deny it! You're so invested in his life you think of _jokes_ about him.''

''Six, Alexio, six times that man has disrespected me! _SIX_!''

''Let the man be.''

''No.''

''Then, may we _please_ revisit my idea from 1954 where we go to his place or residence while he's asleep, kidnap him, shank him a few times because I'm tired of listening about his bullshite, dissolve his horcruxes, turning him mortal, and then when he bleeds out you fist fight him in the afterlife.''

''Bold of you to assume there is an afterlife.''

''You _told_ me.''

Embarrassed pause. Then: ''Alexio, as if I can remember what I told you in the span of two thousand years. Switch the topic. Now.''

''Has anyone ever escaped from your hold?''

''Well, one keeps _trying_. One's _very close_ and I'm conflicted with letting this person go if they successfully find the exit.''

''Is it a secret who they are?''

''I suppose there's no harm in telling _you_. It's-''

* * *

''WALBURGA BLACK!''

Abraxas Malfoy fell out of bed and screamed, shrilly, like a very young peacock trying and succeeding at falsetto. Picture the highest note ever sung, and then picture going beyond it. This was what Walburga Black had to face in the afterlife after having gone to save Abraxas Malfoy from his delusion.

Malfoy Manor divided into different settings, flickering rapidly, trying and failing to animate Abraxas Malfoy, who watched, absolutely petrified at the sight of Walburga Black. Her gaze was commanding, willing him not to look away as she thrust scenes into his head.

All of his memories from this world poured out and those of war and those of his illness and those of Lord Voldemort watching him with nothing but indifference surged through his mind. He remembered Nobby Leach falling, his face twisted into an ignorant smile, his own wand aimed at his throat.

Hogwarts surged to the forefront of his mind. Beatrice the Basilisk, Lord Voldemort the Diadem, his task to kill Dumbledore. How could he manage such a thing whilst sober? He had barely lived with himself afterwards, his weak disposition and recently revealed moral compass steering him towards confusion and fear.

Abraxas closed his eyes. The spinning world stopped to an abrupt halt.

''I've found a way out. You're coming with me. This is not your world. Look at this plebeian linen you sleep on. Cohorting with **_mudbloods_** is not your life. You have been trained in the mind arts and so your memories cling to you even after spending so much time here. You are coming with me and that is FINAL.''

Abraxas remembered his illness and how it had felt good to live without it. A sad, resigned whimper escaped him when understanding dawned on him that if he returned he would be struck by it once more. Opening his eyes he saw how Walburga Black controlled their surroundings much better than he himself had. How she treated the afterlife as if it were some form of lucid dreaming.

''Mind magic is Black magic.'' Abraxas scoffed. Walburga nodded.

''Why are you not saving Orion, or Regulus?'' Abraxas asked, quietly, tiredly. ''Why are you here, Walbie?''

Walburga did not answer him. She just shook her head. Abraxas pressed her, because he liked to press her and if she yelled at him it would really prove it was her. ''What, do they not want to escape? You failed at convincing them, didn't you? How misfortunate, Lady Black.''

Her face turned red. Her hair rose with magic as she pointed a finger (more of a claw, really, what with how long her nails were), and she screamed: ''FOR YOUR INFORMATION, ABRAXAS HYPERION MALFOY, THEY DIDN'T _WANT_ TO COME WITH ME! THEY WERE PERFECTLY CONTENT WITH EXISTING HERE.''

Abraxas laughed, cruelly. ''Oh my, why is this, Walburga? Did their existences not have you in mind? Because the only reason why I know it's really you, is because I would _never_ willingly conjure you in my vicinity.''

Her tone lowered. Her anger dissipated. '' _Yes, actually._ Congratulations, Abraxas, you've gotten much smarter over the years. Both my son and my husband are very, very happy without me. Sirius is there, however. In both of their existences.'' Abraxas flinched, having not expected this.

She turned her back to him and told him that they can leave while Death is preoccupied spying on immortals. ''They are Death's favourite dramas.''

''Walburga, I apologise. That was insensitive of me.''

''Nevermind that now.'' her voice wavered. ''We ought to go.''

So, they did.

Walburga took them back to the nothingness and said that there was a way to those whose mere beings were too harmed to create their own existences. That they guarded the exit unknowingly, else, Walburga mused, they would have already left through it.

''How did you find a way out?''

''When I died and formed my little world - Riddle was there.''

Abraxas assumed that Walburga meant the real Riddle. He happily opened his mouth to ask to visit Tom when Walburga crashed these thoughts with a swift sentence: ''He was very happy to serve me as a lowly halfblood should. Oh, I was so thrilled. Finally, _finally_! The bane to my existence, the idiot that had neither been for us or for the mudbloods could suffer under my foot.'' Walburga clenched her hand into a powerful fist, a sadistic smile coating her face. Abraxas shrank, eyeing the purest of purebloods. Her fist uncurled. ''But then I figured that this was all make believe.'' She looked at Abraxas, then. ''And you KNOW how I don't like fake things.''

Walburga Black had gone to oversee a dragon being skinned in Kazakhstan all so she could be ensured that she would be wearing real dragon-scale robes. Once, Abraxas remembered that Thoros had accidentally sent her faux-leather gloves and that Walburga Black had nearly destroyed Thoros Nott's reputation and made him an outcast for deigning to insult her, the HEIRESS of the NOBLE AND MOST ANCIENT HOUSE OF BLACK!

''I spent a few hours with the ones guarding the exit, but before I could try my way out Death had gone and found me, placing me back inside my world. I realised, then, that I was on the right track. A few years followed of me escaping into different people's existences and hiding there. Not particularly well because Death always brought me back to my existence. She doesn't like Riddle, either. We bonded over this. Apparently Death has taken offence to his many horcruxes, as is her right, I say! Sometimes we would watch Riddle together.''

''What?'' Abraxas wondered, waving his hands in a slight, yet unmistakable frantic motion.

Walburga stopped, tilting her head speculatively to the side. Her eyes sparked.

'' _You don't know.''_

''Know what?'' Abraxas dreaded the answer.

''I'll show you.'' Walburga said cryptically, grabbing hold of Abraxas' hand and dragging him. He followed because he knew he had to, not necessarily because he wanted to. All things were done like this whenever regarding Walburga Black. Abraxas had fallen out of practise with her death, but even in the afterlife she had to find a way to order him about.

Out of nothingness a tall spire rose. It was like trick of light. Abraxas blinked at it and it disappeared, he blinked again and it was closer. He asked Walburga what this was.

''Think of it as the Room of Requirement. If you really, really need it, it'll be here. No one needs this beautiful prison, however, so whenever someone does ask for it - it needs time to form.''

Once they entered it through the front door they were met with a reception. At which a very old and very done man sat. He opened his mouth and there was no tongue in his mouth.

''Socrates.'' Walburga addressed him pleasantly. He waved them off, snapped his fingers, and a tall staircase appeared next to his reception. They began climbing.

Abraxas asked why Socrates' tongue was cut off, that if anything, Death ought to return them whole to this world. Walburga said that there were exceptions done with fickle and dark magic and that marked individuals. ''Socrates was used for a horcrux. The _first_ horcrux.''

''What an honour.'' Abraxas drawled sarcastically.

''I didn't know the act of making one was so powerful. I never imagined the repercussions it could make for the people being used for it.''

''Was Socrates a wizard?''

''No, he was a muggle, but he's older than my ancestors so I'm nice to him.''

''Your priorities astound me.''

They reached a small door atop their heads, Walburga made a fist and punched it in. She was using all of her time away from people that knew her to act like a ruffian. She climbed into the new floor, with Abraxas following suit with more grace. Sports person that he was, knowledgeable of the arts of climbing things.

There, in the far end of the bare room:

Myrtle Warren's lifeless body watched at them. She was a short and svelte girl. Too young to die, some would muse. Slowly both Walburga and Abraxas moved past her. She didn't make any movement or sound. How could she, what with her essence stuck in the living world as a ghost?

There was a regular door in a wall. Abraxas turned the knob and they entered a lavished manor. It was quaintly decorated with elegant vases and ancient furniture that Abraxas would never, ever use. Mostly because he had less classical sense of taste and didn't like simple things, but that was Abraxas' problem.

Walburga appreciatively ran a hand across a sofa and found herself taking a seat. Abraxas followed suit because whenever he dealt with Walburga he reverted back to a follower.

Tom Riddle peeked out from around the corner and told Abraxas to leave. He, naturally, took offence to this. Especially because Tom Riddle didn't tell Walburga Black to leave.

''How dare,'' Abraxas launched to his feet and pointed an accusatory finger, ''you,'' gestured this Tom Riddle (dressed in some muggle suit, like the one from his own existence, except it was much simpler, much more refined than whatever Tom Riddle could think to wear) Wait.

Wait.

Abraxas stopped, open mouthed, mid rant.

Tom Marvolo Riddle did not possess glowing green veins. Abraxas saw them peeking out briefly from the buttoned up muggle suit. He, also, did not possess a bleeding stain across his heart that bled into the white dress shirt.

Wait.

He tried to remember Tom Marvolo Riddle.

No, he most certainly did not have killing curse green sclera.

Walburga sprawled onto the sofa and said that she liked how Lord Riddle wove comfort and style into an intricate and lovely package. Lord Riddle smiled and then playfully thanked Lady Black on her stellar and appreciated compliment.

Tom Riddle Sr. Lord Riddle. Not, in fact, Tom Marvolo Riddle.

Abraxas deflated like a sad balloon and sat down next to Walburga.

His presence did not deter either Walburga Black from flirting with Tom Riddle Sr, or Tom Riddle Sr from flirting back. It did deter him, Abraxas Hyperion Malfoy, when Walburga initiated a full on frontal attack of their lordly lips because Abraxas Hyperion Malfoy just surged for another door to get out of this inane, horrendous, inexplicable room.

As he flew into the other room from sheer discomfort at what he'd seen he couldn't help but think about what his Tom Riddle would think upon finding out that Walburga Black and his own father were involved in the afterlife. Probably something inarticulate and confused, as his capacity to accept things was very low whenever it came to his family life.

This room held a sad apartment that fit wholly with how an old maid would decorate it. Or, it was Abraxas' belief. He moved through the bedroom and saw posters of young male singers, wizard or not. They had dark hair and were handsome. Not Tom Riddle tier handsome, however.

Hepzibah Smith lay about on the bed and waved at Abraxas. Her neck was snapped and her head was a tad directionless compared to other heads out there. Did it make her self-conscious? It did not.

''Oh ohohohohoho.'' Hepzibah raised and lowered her brows as she patted her bed for him to join her.

''Oh nonononono.'' Abraxas returned, remembering how much Tom Riddle had disliked this sexually frustrated woman. He'd endured every little touch and remark for the Hufflepuff Cup and then ended her.

Walburga seemed to find him. She greeted Hepzibah Smith politely and pushed Abraxas through the bedroom. Hepzibah didn't fight them, only sadly whistled after Abraxas Malfoy. He pulled his white robe across his already covered body and shuddered uncomfortably.

''You're going to explain Lord Riddle.''

''It started as a lark, but he grew on me. Like some fungus.''

''Ah. So sweet. True love. Interblood love.'' Abraxas placed both palms over his cheeks and smiled a pretty, petty smile. Walburga retaliated how she usually did whenever something didn't go as she planned: with severe violence. By punching him in the face and staggering him back.

''I can't wait until I tell Voldemort I fucked his father.'' Walburga day-dreamed: ''Should I open up with saying: ''Knock knock? Who's there? YOUR STEPMOTHER, CINDERELLA''

Not even crickets deigned this with a response.

''It's only my first of many, many one liners, Abraxas. I've also got: Guess, who's got a stepmother that will acknowledge him if only he vows to serve the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black like some subservient elf.''

''Or.'' Abraxas said gently. Walburga listened, wearing a triumphant smile. ''Or, you could just say: ''Hello, Riddle,'' he didn't mimic her voice because Walburga didn't like to be mimicked as that was just another false occurrence. ''You may perchance remember a man named Lord Riddle, very kind and handsome man, that Lord Riddle. You do? Wonderful. I have stolen his heart-''

''Tom doesn't have a heart.''

''Pardon?''

''His son, Voldemort, cannibalized it when he was making Lord Riddle into a horcrux.''

''My Tom ate your Tom's heart?''

''Precisely.''

Abraxas gagged.

''Didn't he tell you this?'' Walburga took great joy in seeing Abraxas in pain.

''I always thought he was being poetic. 'I ate my heartless father's heart, making him truly heartless' - he would say.''

''You've got to eat a part of a muggle when you want to make a muggle into a horcrux.''

''Ew!'' Abraxas shouted. Pause, to breathe and shake. Then louder: ''EW! Walburga, he kissed me with that mouth!''

''Quit your nonsense. I need your assistance with this room.''

The room they were in held two beings, made of twigs and gifted with silver eyes.

Abraxas turned around to Walburga and smiled, very widely with narrowed eyes. ''Walbie, correct me if I am wrong, but I am going to assume you only rescued me because I am the only person you know of fairy blood.''

Walburga made no rebuke or affirmation. She only shrugged and said: ''We are Slytherins, Abraxas, all of our friendships depend on mutual benefit.''

''Mutual benefit?'' Abraxas laughed. ''I have no benefit here.''

''You want to see Tom Marvolo Riddle, don't you?'' Walburga said. Once Abraxas nodded, she continued: ''I'm helping you make this wish a reality.''

''Though, without me we can't pass through.''

''I have never known a single fool powerful enough to make fairies into horcruxes. Yet she taught us Defence.'' Walburga said, voice tinged with reverence.

''Merrythought has two horcruxes?'' Abraxas keenly observed the twisting of the fairies. They regarded them just as warily as they did the fay.

''They have one container and were made simultaneously, I believe.'' Walburga explained the one room. This one was filled with towering trees and lush flora. She pushed Abraxas into the fray of the fay.

''Hello!'' Abraxas greeted, because to not greet a fairy was suicide. It seemed a tad redundant when one was already dead to seek death out again. ''I am Malfoy.''

''Oi.''

''Oi.'' The fairies greeted. They did not introduce themselves.

This was quite rude.

Abraxas would forgive them because he was a forgiving individual and fairies were more powerful than he ever could be so the balance of power should not be messed it.

Abraxas turned around. Walburga gave him two stellar thumbs up.

''Ahem.'' Abraxas cleared his throat and tried to channel his sense of superiority. It didn't take him long to do this. ''You will step aside and let us through.''

There was a pause as tension and silence built up into a tall wall.

Finally, one of the fay spoke: ''How about no.''

Abraxas and Walburga fell into awkward, ignorant silence.

''Look at them, each like a lost little doe!'' The other fairy mocked.

Abraxas then sighed in aggravation and asked if even in death fairies had to rhyme.

Fairy one and two narrowed their many, many eyes. They mused aloud, both in sync, until one broke it off to speak: ''We've always rhymed…''

''I've never tried not to.''

''You just did!''

''Sweet Fate!''

''Oh endearing Death!''

''We're free!''

''This is the best thing to ever happen.''

''I don't feel pressure to use words that make no sense all for the sake of aesthetic pleasure.''

''At my own leisure I can speak however I deem fit.''

Walburga clapped along to their joyful singing (that didn't rhyme at all, was actually terrible, but for the sake of their happiness and realisation would not be criticised) Abraxas ushered Walburga and himself to move past the free-verse fairies and through a door that had been guarded. It was camouflaged in a tree.

Walburga turned the doorknob and they walked into another forest.

A vampire waved.

''Do you know who this is?''

''I think that this is the one Voldemort made in Albania.''

The vampire began to open their mouth to talk about their life story that was actually full of interesting twists and turns, but neither Abraxas nor Walburga cared to hear them out so they just walked past them.

Abraxas turned the doorknob and they walked into an orphanage.

''Oh Merlin.'' Walburga sneered, looking around and being disgusted by the state of things. ''This looks like something not even poor people would live in.''

Abraxas nodded, humming in accord. ''You know it's bad when you can't even envision blood traitors living here as punishment.''

''Oh, exactly!'' Walburga laughed.

Groans from the far left end of the room reached their ears. Abraxas and Walburga turned there and saw a desk with a chair. Under the desk was the groaning figure. Half of her head was fractured open, part of her brain missing. Drunken, hazy brown eyes stared up at Walburga and Abraxas. The figure giggled and held close to her near-empty bottle of bourbon.

''Who is this?'' Walburga blinked. She nudged the figure with her foot like she was an animal she didn't want to touch, lest it infect her with rabies.

Abraxas closely observed her. He had seen this woman somewhere. While Tom Riddle and he, as young men had practised legilimency on one another.

''This is Marguerite Cole.''

Walburga flinched at how venomous Abraxas had introduced the muggle woman.

''Preseeent.'' Mrs Cole giggled drunkenly.

The door was unguarded, simply behind Mrs Cole's desk area. Walburga first went towards it, opened it, and stepped halfway through, beckoning Abraxas to come with her.

He didn't. At first.

Abraxas bent down to be at eye level with Mrs Cole. She tipped the bottle of bourbon into her mouth and relished in the alcoholic numbness. He smiled at her and once she relaxed completely, he grabbed hold of the bottle, willed his magic onto it, and turned the bourbon into water.

Only then, satisfied with himself and Mrs Cole's anguished screams, did he decide to leave.

Inside this room:

A familiar woman sat on top of a familiar body.

Her eyes were completely green. With green sclera and veins glowing, and green irises deepening the murderous gaze that fell on both Abraxas and Walburga. Dark red hair adorned her hunched over shoulders. She was dressed comfortably, as if anyone caught in their home would.

Abraxas did not need to strain his mind to figure out where he found this woman familiar from. This was the most famous residence in Godric's Hollow that surrounded them. A crib off to the side stood. How depraved was it to find a death scene in a nursery, thought Abraxas to himself.

Even Walburga found her voice cut off in a form of silent respect.

Tom Marvolo Riddle's body lay lifelessly underneath her. His mouth was open as if he'd just finished saying a spell. His red eyes stared unblinkingly at the ceiling.

Abraxas slowly, so so slowly and warily approached The Woman.

Lily Potter kept her powerful eyes on him, tracking him like a hunter did its prey.

He knelt next to her, neither saying anything to her, or Walburga. His heart beat dangerously fast. His fingers grasped hold of Tom Riddle's body (something he'd been deprived of) and barely managed to swallow a ball of twisting, inexplicable, yearning disquiet.

Lily Potter stood and moved away to the door to sit in front of it and guard it. Abraxas had a feeling that this would be the final door. He counted horcruxes under his breath: Diary, Ring, Cup, Diadem, and Locket. Next he counted the people they'd all passed: Myrtle Warren, Lord Riddle, Hepzibah Smith, Vampire, Mrs Cole, and Lily Potter. This number did not add up, Abraxas didn't have to be an arithmancy genius to know simple math.

Uncomfortably he looked at Lily Potter.

Uncomfortably he looked at Harry Potter's crib.

Uncomfortably he looked at the body in his hold. So, so cold. Like a corpse whose soul and mind had departed.

Uncomfortably he looked at Walburga Black who looked expectantly towards him. This was never a good look because Abraxas remembered it from his time in Hogwarts when Walburga would look at him like this when Abraxas didn't understand something that everyone else had already mastered. It had made him feel under pressure and ignorant of the world he lived in.

If. Abraxas didn't dare voice this, so he thought. If. If. IF.

Harry Potter was a horcrux.

Harry Potter had survived the killing curse. Lily Potter had died. Her magic had been used in the ritual done by an unstable and ill warlord. His body disappeared. He'd sworn to save Lily Potter. Severus Snape had begged him. How dared that little slime beg his lord after turning spy? Abraxas controlled his anger and breathed in shakily. He cradled Tom Riddle's body close and needed to think.

Lily Potter had died. All vows of magic needed time to react. Her maternal protection and the broken vow between Severus and Voldemort initially disbalanced his magic and he, whilst trying to destroy Harry Potter, made a horcrux instead.

''Walburga…'' Abraxas' voice was below a whisper. It hurt him to speak. It pained him to think. He looked at Tom Riddle and set him down gently. Yet. Oh Yet. He poured hope into his next words: ''Walburga, when you said you and Death watched Tom… what did you mean by this?''

Harry Potter had been shot at with a killing curse during the Quidditch World Cup of 1998. Tom Riddle look-alike had spoken to him, had gone to pry him away from the shot. Abraxas held his hands and concentrated, desperately trying to gain control over his own body. It wouldn't listen to him. It only shook.

Lily Potter watched. Walburga didn't speak.

Abraxas laughed. It was a particularly broken-hearted laugh. The kind Walburga had never expected to hear from Abraxas Malfoy. She came to his comfort, draping a tentative hand on his shoulder and squeezing it.

''He's alive, isn't he?'' Abraxas continued laughing. Tears welled and trickled down his cheeks. As they neared the exit and therefore came closer and closer to reality, so did their forms shift to accommodate the jump it would require. Abraxas' white robe turned to a St. Mungo's hospital robe. His skin deepened with scars and he covered his face with his hands, leaning forward brokenly over Tom Marvolo Riddle's body.

''Tom Marvolo Riddle is alive.'' Walburga confirmed. She wore her funeral robes. It may have been Walburga Black's funeral, but it had had less people in attendance than any pureblood funeral of that decade.

''But… he must have been… intercepted or, or busy, or ill?'' Abraxas tried, desperately to piece together an explanation that would explain this. Nausea curled in his stomach and marched upward. He gagged and pressed a hand across his mouth. Abraxas looked towards Walburga Black, the only person that had never lied to him, that had never gave him false hope or helped him delude himself: ''Surely,'' he begged, ''he would have otherwise sent word.''

Surely, Abraxas thought, Tom Marvolo Riddle would have sent a cure were he able?

Walburga pressed her lips together and contemplated what to do. Whether to tell a white lie or tell the blackest of truths? Well. Walburga _Black_ didn't have to ponder much.

''Up until 1991 he was physically incapable of aiding anyone. After, Abraxas, I shall not lie to you – he _didn't want_ to cure you. In fact, Tom Marvolo Riddle was perfectly content with forgetting he had ever lived in England. He's parading as an American, _can you believe that?_ ''

It felt like a cruciatus curse had been shot at Abraxas. Pain spread from his heart, enveloping him in a cloak of searing torment. Abraxas' eyes widened a fraction as the full truth of this information layered over his brain. He giggled. It was too much. His giggling spread, growing louder and breaking the thick, forlorn silence of the Potter Nursery. Abraxas fell over Tom Marvolo Riddle's body and _laughed_.

That same broken hearted laugh of distress and acceptance.

Through some of the laughter he tried to speak, but found himself incapable of forming coherent sentences. This caused Abraxas to laugh even harder.

Like voyeurs Lily Potter and Walburga Black watched, their gazes unable to look away. They likened the sight in front of them to a terrible quidditch crash. Abraxas _clapped_.

''I gave him everything, Walburga!'' Abraxas wheezed out. He wiped tears away with his hands and aimed his arms towards the ceiling. It was painted nicely, with little stars for children to be animated by.

''Yes.'' Walburga said. She tried to get Abraxas to move with her, for them both to leave, but he shook her hold off. ''Abraxas, we must leave. Lady Potter is growing too impatient with us.''

Lily Potter was, contrary to Walburga's belief, amused beyond measure. She curled her legs up to her chest and observed. People trapped like this had so little to content themselves with. It would be a crime for her not to take entertainment wherever she could.

''I loved him, Walburga!'' Abraxas cried out. ''I loved him more than I _ever_ loved myself!''

Walburga grabbed hold of Abraxas and hoisted him up without his consent. He turned to glare at the body and without being prompted kicked it with all of his magical strength. What with it being lifeless all it did was jump slightly like cold flesh could. Again. Abraxas kicked it and screamed, a spark of rage in his eyes boiling his emotions into turmoil: ''You think I depend on you? You think I, a true born pureblood Lord of Sacred Twenty-Eight, _need_ you, you common, delusional halfblood with inferiority complexes hidden behind superiority complexes?! Your family are worse than _mudbloods_ , Tom Riddle! Run and hide like a coward from your responsibility, you daft, sick _creature_! You aren’t even human! No human could ever be this cruel – you soulless wraith!''

Walburga and Lily stood next to this scene, both uncertain as to what should be done.

Abraxas screamed. The floor filled with water. Walburga marvelled at the power necessary for his magic to interfere with Death's. In her vanity, Walburga had thought herself the only one capable of changing things in this nothingness.

''Every one of us thought you were Prometheus, come to grant us the gods’ fire. You promised us the world served on a silver platter and you lied to us and you swindled us and you promised – you worthless, agonized filth. Now when you’ve been caught by the gods and have to serve your punishment you’ve run away? That’s now how any of this is supposed to work! You cannot simply run from your life, no matter how horrible to you it may be! You cannot just decide to, to,'' Abraxas floundered for dramatic enough words as he yelled at unmoving, unresponsive body, ''You can’t just run and make a new identity for yourself, you can’t just leave everyone behind and think that that’s fair – because it isn’t fair… it isn’t. There’s no such thing as a _Retired Prometheus_. His Godly punishment is eternal and must be obeyed, no matter how brilliant he may have been, or bold, or gifted! You can't just _quit it_! You can't just quit everyone!'' Then, the most painful, the most terrible sentence Abraxas has said today: ‘’You can’t just quit me…’’

''Abraxas…'' Walburga tried to get him to leave. Lily Potter moved from the door. Water rose from their ankles towards their knees. It began to grow warm. Abraxas shouted. It began to turn hot. Abraxas kicked Tom Marvolo Riddle's discarded body. It began to _scorch_.

''I will kill Dumbledore, Tom Riddle, and I will get that cure from one of your horcruxes. And then.'' Abraxas yelled, pouring magic into his words and crafting an oath, ''then when I am cured, I will _hunt_ **you** down like a **_mudblood_** and I will take you to justice! I will be like my fairy ancestors and I will hunt you and I will **break** you.''

''Abraxas!''

''You dare,'' Abraxas swung again, his face scrambled with fury and wrath, ''run from me? You dare meet me and pretend to not know me? You DARE think yourself free from MY judgement, MY _JUSTICE_? Oh, Tom Marvolo Riddle, oh ho ho! _You know nothing of the ocean I will drown you in_. It is easy to forgive the dead, but you? YOU IDIOTIC, ARROGANT _, LIVING_ MAN!''

''ABRAXAS!''

''You!'' Abraxas couldn't help himself. He grabbed hold of the body and pulled it up with swift magic. He held onto the front of Voldemort's robe and threatened: ''Dare make an enemy out of me, Tom? Think that it's easy to do as you please to me, don't you? That good little Abraxas Malfoy, your devoted confidant and lover, doesn't have it in him to go against you? Rest assured, wherever you are, you are not safe from my influence. Dumbledore and Mrs Cole and whatever other demon you may be harbouring in your mind will prove to be NOTHING compared to me. Rest assured.'' Vapour rose. Abraxas was not deterred. His silver eyes shone as brightly as a scorned fairy's. ''What I can do to you, no one will have thought to.'' Then, as if a dam broke, Abraxas screamed in finality and betrayal: ''SEVENTEEN YEARS OF AGONY AND MISERY AND PAIN AND **_SICKNESS_**! YOU WANTED TO BE MY DEATH, BUT REST ASSURED, TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE, **IT IS _I_ WHO WILL BE _YOURS_!**''

'' **ABRAXAS!''** Walburga pushed Abraxas hard, gesturing madly to the boiling water that had reached her waist. Lily Potter had climbed on Harry Potter's crib.

Abraxas blinked. The water disappeared.

The door swung open and Lily Potter finally spoke: ''Good hunting.''

Walburga dragged him through, fearful of what Abraxas could have done to them had she not snapped his attention back. His silver eyes held very little of the good natured light she'd known his eyes by. They were defeated and betrayed. Before they went their separate ways, having found two paths labelled with their names (Death was very organized like that), Walburga hugged him and told him she would meet him in Malfoy Manor. Abraxas nodded and hugged her back, telling her to not antagonize his peafowls when she went there. They parted ways like friends.

* * *

Walburga Black woke to the confines of her coffin. Luckily – her hands tapped along the coffin and she found a long, elegant stick that could only be her wand. Blacks were buried with their wands.

Aiming to the top of her coffin, Walburga said with all of the conviction of a survivor: ''MAXIMUM BOMBARDA!''

* * *

Abraxas opened his eyes to find a wand aimed at him and red-eyed Mandy Leach speaking the killing curse incantation. He kicked her in the stomach as hard as he could, now that Tom Marvolo Riddle's illness had resurfaced. Abraxas did not pretend that he was not weak. However, he was still taller than Mandy Leach. He was still much stronger than her, a wounded, easily rattled, untrained civilian.

She began fighting him. His eyes fell from her face to the bracelet lined with charms that were neither charming nor fit to be worn. As Mandy tried to tear his hands off of her arms, Abraxas willed his magic to unlock the bracelet off of Mandy Leach's wrist. He gritted his teeth and fought with more confidence than he ever would have before. Because he was a man with a mission. He was not a puppet of any grand scheme, not a toy to be controlled by neither Dumbledore, or Death, or Tom Marvolo Riddle.

For the first time in his life, Abraxas Hyperion Malfoy could say for certainty that he wanted to live because he actually looked forward to what he could do with his life.

The bracelet fell.

Mandy Leach's eyes turned completely brown.

''I am sorry.'' She apologised. ''I didn't want to kill you.''

How truthful any of that was could be put up to debate. Abraxas did not judge her, nor did he want her to forgive him.

''No.'' Abraxas grabbed hold of the bracelet and thought about lighting it up with fiendfyre - if only to see if the original would come. But then reason returned and he knew that he needed them as **_leverage_**. ''No, you don't have it in you to kill anyone, Madame Leach.'' He pushed himself to his feet and whispered. ''I apologise for your husband.''

''Your apology will not bring him back.'' Mandy Leach said, glaring up at him from the floor.

''No.'' Abraxas Malfoy returned, agreeing. ''But nonetheless I believe I owed you an apology.''

He patted his patient's robe for his wand and found it stashed in a pocket. A pureblood was always armed. His willow wand pointed at Mandy Leach, and her husband's killer asked her a very important question: ''Wisely now, Madame Leach, do you know where Tom Marvolo Riddle is?''

Mandy Leach didn't need to think about her answer. ''No.'' she answered truthfully. He could feel it in her magic and her mind and her body.

''Thank you.'' Abraxas said. Then out of the four Tom Riddle's that lined his vision he addressed the Diadem: ''Our deal is still on?''

Mutely, the Diadem nodded.

Abraxas Malfoy didn't wait for anyone to come to his aid or check up on him. He spun in place and disapparated with a resounding, distinct _crack_.


	25. Death in December I

Prison was actually pretty terrible and if asked no prisoner would ever recommend being imprisoned. Not only did time pass slowly which made prisoners think about their decisions, but on top of that mental torture the health care was horrendous.

''I should probably get a healer, shouldn't I?'' a prisoner poked his eyelids. He opened his eyes and tracked his moving finger. It was a smudge. To think he once used to be considered the greatest duellist of his school's history.

''Not life-threatening.'' came the answer from a guard stationed outside his cell.

''Not life-threatening as far as _you_ know.''

Sometimes prison was talking to one person for over fifty years.

''Today is a very boring day.''

The guard was sitting on a chair in front of the prison bars and read a newspaper while agreeing: ''Your horoscope says something surprising will happen to you, but only if you allow yourself to be open to change.''

''Does it really? How fun.''

''Who knows,'' jokingly the guard went on, ''maybe you'll break out of prison today.''

''I hardly believe I am going to do anything so strenuous on a _Thursday_ , Olga.''

Waves hit the tall, stone walls of Nurmengard. Olga Schmidt read on as Gellert Grindelwald propped his aching legs upward along the wall, lying on his bed and tiredly thinking. It was an irritating and exhausting affair, this being imprisoned. Albus had been cruel to do this to him, and Gellert had been crueller to himself for allowing it.

Their day to day activities consisted of Gellert asking Olga about her day, her not telling him anything, their analysing the horoscope together, and his sleeping. Sometimes, when he truly wanted to end this suffering, he let his mind and tongue wander. He would speak about a lover from abroad that had forgotten him. ''Or rather,'' Gellert mused, ''he's ashamed of me. Starting out, dear Olga, he always wondered what others thought of him. I brought him out of his shell and he repaid me with imprisonment.''

Olga, who had mostly been listening with half an ear, kept nodding until the last sentence registered in her mind and she choked on her own tongue. _''Albus Dumbledore?''_

''What is so strange about that? Everyone thinks I would let _anyone_ duel me.''

''Did you let him win? Most of your fanatics speculate this.'' Olga asked. She stood and neared the bars, watching him warily.

Gellert shrugged, sick eyes glued to the ceiling lined with cracks and dust.

Olga then began to doubt this. Gellert Grindelwald was known for manipulating and twisting people's thoughts into what he wanted them to be. The pay was good for the desperate and Olga would not be swayed. She returned to her seat and said: ''You're lying.''

Again, Gellert shrugged. He turned to look at Olga. His eyes were a terrifying icy blue colour. The more Olga looked at them, they were fainter and fainter and almost silver.

''Albus Dumbledore is a respectable man.''

''So was I, if you recall.''

Olga shuddered at the cool, earthy voice. This was a man grounded in himself. He someone that could not be swayed easily. In turn, it made his words ring.

His small prison cell was lined with nothing to entertain himself with. The gruel they'd given him had over the years turned into something manageable. Gellert was thankful for how easily he forgot about food. That he likened prison slop to British food and liked to delude himself that he was living with his Great Aunt Bathilda. Auntie for short because she didn't think herself so great and Gellert thought it a mouthful to say.

''I could leave if I wanted to.'' Gellert said. The cracks above him deepened with magical intent. This had been _his_ fortress, a prison for _his_ enemies.

''No.'' Olga said, aware of this song and dance; how sometimes when bored Gellert Grindelwald liked to hint that no prison could truly hold him. That this was his good will. ''You only think that you can leave.''

Gellert Grindelwald shrugged. Olga wished to brandish her wand and cast immovable spells on him. Fear clawed at her mind, but she breathed in and then out. Reminded of the fact that Gellert Grindelwald was imprisoned for fifty-three years. That this was just a game of a bored old man that couldn't even see properly anymore. Olga read him things from newspapers because his eyes hurt him when he concentrated on looking. He said that it was a curse that acted slowly and finally reached its prime in his old age. He warned Olga that every magic had a price. Olga then told him off for doing Dark Magic in the first place. Gellert liked to smile at her then, calling her ignorant without using words.

Another guard came along to relieve Olga of her duty. He held a letter in his hand which he tossed mindlessly at Grindelwald. ''Bagshot writes you. We checked the letter for contraband. She's stopped sending it to you finally…''

Grindelwald allowed a small, genuine smile to grace his face as he opened the letter carefully. He was met with practised, assured swirls of his Great Aunt. It took him a long, _long_ time to read the page, but to hand this over to Olga or this guard seemed like sacrilege.

Dear nephew,

I shall skip the pleasantries. Neither you nor I care for them.

Not once in my many, many years have I seen a resurrection. It was most exciting, Gellert! I was paying my respects to dear Ariana's grave and some other folks buried in Godric Hollow, when I heard a screech. It was the most rattling sort of scream. Well, I had never heard such raw strength and agony formed together into a symphony of survivalism. Such barbaric crunching, Gellert. I felt alive!

The earth rose with a blast as a coffin splintered open. From out of it emerged a demonic force the likes of which I have never seen. Gellert, this creature wore the most beautiful funeral garb. Black of course. I neared because, as you know, I cannot ignore a challenge. The toppled over headstone read: Walburga Black.

I turned to the creature and saw that half of her face was marred with bone and meat. Her magic quickly moved to rectify this, but she’s been dead for more than ten years. What fun!

This was the most exciting day of my life. She did not look like an inferi. You, as a dark arts specialist, probably know what had happened here. Write me immediately. I cannot wait to hear what you think of this.

What a day, Gellert. Just when you think you haven't seen anything, you see Walburga Black emerging from her own grave like a vampire. Though, her eyes were not red. I checked. She is in my home as we speak, drinking tea and telling me about how Lord Voldemort is still alive and needs to be destroyed.

Gellert, this is the most fun I've ever had!

With love,

Bathilda Bagshot

Gellert folded the letter and placed it with all of the other letters he'd gotten from Bathilda. She was the only one that wrote him.

''I think dear Bathilda's finally gone insane.'' Gellert admitted. ''Pity, really. She was a formidable woman that shaped me.''

The replacement guard sneered, ignoring him. Gellert decided to go to sleep and dreamed.

* * *

Bathilda Bagshot hexed Gellert Grindelwald's dangling, uncovered leg. He was trying to sleep in for a change, but his early bird aunt disallowed him. ''Up!''

''I am not a broom!'' Gellert said, peeved. He obliged nonetheless and walked past his glowing aunt, purple tendrils slipped past her and drifted into the air gently. Gellert blinked at that and his aunt was normal. He really ought to get some proper sleep, but his aunt didn't let him cushion his bed because - and to quote her: ''They sent you here, Gellert, because they _wanted_ you to suffer.''

The house elf had prepared proper British food. Gellert looked at this and gagged. Bathilda shot him a look. Gellert shot her a meaner one back. She amped up hers. He got afraid and sat down.

''I am going to be editing all day.'' Bathilda wrote many books and edited them, too. Usually because she didn't trust people to convey her facts as well as she only could.

Gellert poked the bland, tasteless monstrosity in front of him.

''Are you listening, Gellert?''

Gellert nodded. Bathilda was satisfied because she went on: ''This means that I cannot care for you today. You are a young man with many great qualities about him.''

''Mhm.'' Gellert hummed and fought against the food. He was going to starve in England. These people didn't know what spices were. He thought of his mother's food and his stomach growled. For survival! Gellert forced himself to eat. After the third bite he nearly threw up.

Bathilda was either ignoring this or completely unaware. She went about her own business like a legend. Gellert envied such lack of concern for others. He always saw everything around him, no matter how trivial. ''Perhaps you could go out for a walk and maybe, maybe!'' Bathilda's eyes sparked, ''Maybe you could even make some friends your own age.''

This was the last thing Gellert I shall brood in my English prison Grindelwald wanted to do. However, saying no was not an option. So after his bland breakfast he set off to find a rare species of creature his Aunt called: Friends your own age.

Gellert Grindelwald was a gangly sort. Blond. Dark blue eyed. Striking. He was everything Durmstrang had wanted out of a prodigy student. Though, then he'd been expelled for meddling with magic. Durmstrang was appalled at the magical act, whilst his father was appalled at the young man Gellert had used for the ritual. They'd sent him abroad, as far, far away from his home as his father could get away with. It was his mother that denied his being sent to another continent. Trust his father to save face by erasing Gellert's existence, even though he was his only heir.

He found a hill near Godric's Hollow that had an oak tree on top of it. Gellert liked to be by himself so he marched decisively towards it. It was an exhausting climb, but after getting on top of it, it didn't feel like he'd climbed the top of the world, nor did it leave him breathless, but it left him with a sense of pride that he'd gotten out of bed and found a new perspective.

Godric's Hollow stretched out from underneath him with its little houses and neighbourhoods and graveyard. He approached the oak tree, wanting to sit underneath it and relax. Summer breeze gently lulled him.

Before he could sit, he heard a loud, scared scream. Gellert moved to look to its source and found a little girl that he'd not noticed. Her surroundings were drenched in a blinding light. He was knocked out by her magic. Gellert fell on a rock and heard a loud, painful crunch near his head.

* * *

Abraxas Malfoy moved with purpose. He reached Hogwarts, after having gone briefly to Malfoy Manor to change his clothes. Now adorned him a beautiful green robe with an ever-changing pattern of cypress leaves.

It was a sunny day; the first real sign that something was not how it was supposed to be. Sun in Scotland was a mythological phenomenon and a bad omen.

He held his willow wand with ease. The horcrux bracelet hummed at him, discontent. The smart thing to do would be to ignore it. Because he had no idea what was happening in it, nor did he care to find out.

What he did do was go straight for Severus Snape's potion cabinet, electing to not meet up with Minerva or _anyone_. It was odd, misbalanced, and freeing to walk without a cane, fuelled by the horcruxes' magic. It was another form of crutch, one that Abraxas more willingly tolerated.

His eyes glowed brightly, burning like water from the deep, deep end.

Once he opened the cabinet he searched for a potion to aid him, muttering about potion masters and liquid luck and how if amortentia could be drunk heedlessly he could drug himself with Felix Felicis. No one was there to hear his philosophical banter, which left him better off.

''Aha!'' Abraxas joyously said and took out a small vial of Felix Felicis. He drank it all in one go and threw it over his shoulder. It shattered. He did not care.

Next, he felt his own feet move without the aid of his brain. His body knew what needed to be done and his own magic led him around like a confused dog. Abraxas giggled. Yes, the feel of Felix Felicis hadn't changed since the last time he'd drunk it in 1968.

Contently, Abraxas marched towards his next destination.

* * *

Four charms on a bracelet debated.

The youngest, but also the oldest, spoke first: ''OK, do we all agree that we’ve made a grievous mistake? Abraxas won't talk to us. Diadem promised Abraxas to cure him, even though he doesn't know _how_ to cure him. Which is just bloody fantastic is what this is! Incredibly thought out, I say. Locket, over there glowering at us in the distance – yeah, _that guy_ knows how to cure him, but won't say because of something as ridiculous as believing in the communist manifesto.''

''The aristocracy _is_ toxic and must be destroyed. The magical world is dying under the thumb of bored and obstinate purebloods-''

''Thank you, _Engels_.'' Diary mocked.

Locket clasped his hands together and growled, placing them over his head. ''You are all idiots!''

''We can possess him and then he'll tell us the cure.'' Cup said, looking at Diary. The largest horcrux could overwhelm any and all of the horcruxes present in this debate.

''If it's a poison I know everything there is to know about poisons!'' Diadem contributed, haughtily. ''Abraxas is a patient man.'' The remaining horcruxes snorted at this. ''He will keep me on if I prove myself. I want to cure him just as much as all of you.'' Then, amending, upon seeing the Locket. ''All of us left with reason.''

''I am the most reasonable of you.'' Locket said. ''You pander to these purebloods still.''

''I pander to _myself_ , thank you.'' Cup said, voice and words like the sharpest sword that sliced through any foe. Locket spoke nothing to the Cup. The Cup lived with Mandy and taken up mindfulness techniques around 1980 per Mandy's orders, so he was not nearly as emotionally wrecked as the other horcruxes. Unlike the rest of them, Cup had actually had access to a certified Healer.

''But what if he demands instant results?'' Diary asked, inferring to Abraxas. They watched him from the bracelet, too smart and afraid of manifesting in his line of sight. He moved like a man on a mission, fuelled by the horcrux magic. Diadem called his form much more suited to walk without a cane. That this was how he remembered Abraxas and that he was happy for his resurrection. The cane remained in Faerie.

''You're happy about his resurrection because with it Dumbledore dies.'' Cup said, easily reading the Diadem.

''The Ring joins us.'' Diadem corrected. ''This is not about Dumbledore. Though,'' he smiled, ''his death is a bonus.''

Diary asked the Locket then: ''You are not fighting... why are you not fighting as you did while Mandy had us? You are not trying to possess Abraxas or hurt him.''

Locket smiled, a pleased glint in identical crimson eyes that every horcrux shared: ''Because, you incredible fools, I want to see Dumbledore dead _more than all of you_.''

''More than Abraxas Malfoy?'' Diary pressed. When this horcrux asked an answer had to be given. Their soul interviewed and screamed. Discarded pieces gravitated towards the Diary, feeling it as the only substitute to the original – only because of its abundance.

''He helped make Lord Voldemort. It is only just that Lord Voldemort helped unmake Albus Dumbledore.'' Locket answered.

''We are of the same mind?'' Cup asked, then, after a pause.

''Lord Voldemort aids Abraxas Malfoy in killing Albus Dumbledore and returning the Ring to us.'' All chorused.

''And then it's free game.'' Locket added.

''And then prepare to bow.'' Cup told the Locket, leaning on the Diary.

Diadem interjected: ''But, gentlemen, we needn't even do any of that! I am perfectly capable of-''

''It's not a poison, you fucking _dolt_.'' Locket broke it to Diadem. He blinked at this information.

''But he said that he was poisoned.''

''What people say is not necessarily what _is_.'' Locket giddily said. He couldn't help it. He acted like a man whose life's work was likened to a petty accident. What he'd done was revolutionary. What he'd devised was beyond anything anyone had ever tried. It insulted his brilliance to be thought of as some unknown version of a poison. Anyone could just make a poison, especially with their ability to tame any snake and extract its venom to brew with. No, that would have been too obvious. Abraxas Malfoy deserved to suffer on a fundamental level only a pureblood could.

''What did you do?'' Cup asked, casually. Diary grabbed hold of him, leaning on him like a child. Diadem narrowed his eyes and waited.

''I _punished_ him.'' Locket answered, proud of himself.

''How?'' Cup demanded. His tone remained neutral and calm.

How could one punish a pureblood? How could one humiliate a pureblood? There were plenty of answers, but none nearly as debilitating as Lord Voldemort was content with. No, he had to do something eldritch. He had to inflict upon Abraxas all of the rage he'd been feeling towards him. A lesson to be learned and forever remembered.

''You didn't kill him.'' Diary, ever trapped in the mentality that everyone that had ever done them wrong needed killing, mused aloud, rubbing his chin contemplatively.

''Abraxas didn't have to die. That was his decision. But no longer would his _magic_ ruin lives.''

''But,'' Diary spoke slowly, returning the other's slowness when speaking to him, doubling the condescension, ''Abraxas _can_ do magic.''

''Yes,'' Diadem said, ''Abraxas can do magic and I have watched him while he taught. His illness was contained with the potions he drank. Whenever he didn't do magic it was, _not stable_ , no, but not unstable _either_.''

''I miscalculated when I made the damn thing. His magic was supposed to be shut off completely.'' Locket confessed. ''I hadn't taken into account what an amalgam of problems his blood would pose. My mental state at that point was deteriorating faster than any of you are familiar with. I cannot even imagine how the original fares.''

Cup listened to this. He leaned forward and asked: ''Mandy was surprised that Abraxas had never gotten into contact with a dragon. Dragons are the only ones capable of transferring Dragon pox. That's when they began calling it a modified Dragon pox. Like a virus of some kind, but Abraxas said he'd ingested it via drink and their theories fell away to poison.''

Locket smiled. He spoke nothing.

''When'd you make it?'' Diadem asked. He shoved his hands into his pockets and leaned forward conspiratorially.

''1970. It was going to be a countermeasure against anyone I needed alive, but out of the way. However, I would not use it until 1981 it seems. _I_ wanted to use it on Abraxas straightaway, but the original _didn't_. He is weak compared to me. He cut me out because he still cares for that— that _thing_.'' Locket glared at Abraxas Malfoy.

''It's not poison.'' Cup listed off on his fingers, amusedly, ''It's not Dragon Pox. It's not venom based. It's magic based. Or rather, the blood carries it off to where it's going to cause the most damage _to_ magic. Oh my.'' Cup curled his lips into a wide, pleased smile.

''You don't know about it.'' Locket said. ''You couldn't know about it. Not even the Diadem knows about it and he was in Albania-''

''How dare you. I know things.'' Both the Diadem and the Diary felt left out in this one-upmanship.

''Except, you forget, the original spoke to Mandy Leach often. And everything Mandy knows I know. He met her in 1980, even in 1981.'' Cup smiled. ''And he mentioned _Lena Ajeti_ quite often.''

''Is that Zef's sister or something?''

''Zef had a crisis of identity and goes by Lena now.''

The Dairy was going to open his mouth to say something and surprised everyone by saying: ''Oh, like Lord Voldemort for us. Good for this Lena. Who is she?''

The Diadem explained, in vivid detail, the horrors Lena put him through in Albania.

Cup raised a fist in the air and raised a thumb up at Locket. Then, like Caesar giving verdict to a gladiator show, he swiftly turned it into a thumbs down. ''Lord Voldemort's hubris never ceases to amaze me. You fooled so many people, but you can't fool _yourself_.''

The Locket was too stunned to speak. His gaze tore from the smug Cup to Abraxas.

''No.'' He spoke. Cup's smile stretched. _''NO!''_

* * *

When Gellert Grindelwald woke up in a strange home, with a goat bleating at his ear – all he could wonder was if the food of his captors would be any better. His stomach growled and his head felt as if someone had bulldozed it and rebuilt it so everything inside his head was just a tad to the left.

The blinding light rounded the corner softly. It shimmered, reflecting hues in too small fractions. Only when it approached did it fade away to show him a small girl. Her hands were wrung together with anxiety, in her grasp was a wet cloth she placed over his wound. Gellert hissed and she apologised profusely. ''My brothers are out. Please, please, do not tell them I hurt you. I told them that I found you hurt and they helped bring you back here.'' She pressed against the wound, maybe on purpose, maybe by accident – but it _hurt_. ''Please, promise me.''

Gellert nodded. The pain stopped. She clasped her hands together and joyfully laughed, tears of relief in her eyes. He offhandedly gestured the goat and told her to shoo it away. It left him alone, sensing that it was unwanted. Smart goat.

''I am Ariana.'' the girl introduced herself. ''Ariana Dumbledore.'' she remembered her courtesy and knew that a name meant nothing to a wizard if he could not track her blood lineage through her surname.

Gellert did not answer instantly. He watched Ariana Dumbledore with something akin to awe because her magic swirled in such beautiful discontent, darkness intermixing with light. Being rendered speechless was not the main reason why he had not answered with his name, another was because of the concussion that made him think an important thing: How in Merlin's name was his name even pronounced in English?

His pause made Ariana think he was insulted by her. She apologised and left to the kitchen to make tea.

Gellert was still thinking how to pronounce his own name. Gell -ert? Grindel -wold? Wald? Weld? Grind -elwald? Ge-llert? Brightest mind of Durmstrang, ladies and gentlemen.

Ariana returned and handed him a steaming cup of tea to drink. Gellert shifted to a sitting position and accepted, smiling at the girl. She asked him if he even could speak English. Gellert was too embarrassed to answer that. Because he felt like a fraud and speaking to his aunt was one thing, but this was a strange _native English speaker_!

His head was killing him.

When two rambunctious gingers brought down the doors with their shouting, his head was killing him even more out of spite. Ariana was sitting with him and telling him about her day, using very plain words to explain. She had gone to her Oak tree spot to relax. Her late mother Kendra Dumbledore brought her there often. It was her calm spot. Usually her magic was much worse, but whenever she was at the Oak tree everything felt tamer.

Gellert knew that some people had problems with their magic, but he couldn't quite place what Ariana's magic was. It wasn't anything he'd ever met. Why weren't people teaching her to control herself?

''Ariana!'' The taller ginger pointed and said: ''Leave that poor man alone.''

''Poor man?'' the shorter ginger had already drawn his wand: ''What's he doing with our sister on a _bed_ , Albus? Poor Ariana, I say. Explain yourself, fiend!''

The goat came back and nuzzled its head against the shorter ginger.

''I was giving him tea, Aberforth.'' Ariana crossed her arms and glared, piercely. ''Our guest has been nothing but a kind gentleman and he takes great offence to your words.''

Gellert sipped his tea and stared at the tallest ginger. He was quite handsome. He had a very nice beard. Very powerful beard man. Red flashed in his mind when he looked at him. The ginger ran a hand through his hair and his arms were _very_ nice. Gellert sipped his tea and remembered that he was a man and that men had a _tell_ and _fuck_ he needed to go to a bathroom because this ginger man was _nice_. But he didn't know how to articulate himself because his brain was hotwired to Hungarian. English? Help, learning English for over ten years meant nothing when put into a situation that called for it! This ginger man left him speechless!

''After them muggle boys, Ariana, you can't expect that we'll let you out of our sight so easily. We're worried. You should talk to us more. Talk to Albus.''

Albus.

_What a beautiful name._

Albus made a disgruntled expression: ''No. No. Ariana should go and talk to a _woman_.''

Ariana was breathing in and out very slowly. She was shuddering and Gellert tentatively patted her shoulder. He saw that it took her great self-restraint not to flinch at his touch.

''Aren't you like a woman...'' Aberforth smugly said. ''What with your _inclinations_?''

Albus Dumbledore looked about ready to kill his brother for such a statement, but Ariana stopped them: ''Stop it.'' her words rang powerfully. The darkness came and snuffed her light. Her eyes were not glowing as fiercely as they usually did. Gellert came to the conclusion that whenever threatened, her own magic overpowered Ariana. What a sight! Such raw, indescribable power locked inside one small girl. It was a shame she did not know how to control it. _Her magic terrifying, but her mind terrified._

''Stop fighting in front of our guest.'' Ariana's words were listened to. Albus and Aberforth stopped their fighting, but they did not apologise.

''What's his name anyway?'' Aberforth asked. A flash of grey coated his arms and his legs. It was as grey as the goat's fur.

Albus had outstretched his hand to him to shake. Gellert set the drained teacup down on the bed and shook the proffered hand. What a nice, nice grip! So firm. Oh. Such beautiful eyes stared at him. Gellert would have swooned. He was always so easily taken in by handsome young men.

He recalled his fellow dormmate he'd taken a fancy to. Klaus Weber had not nearly been as nice, but he'd very easily been swayed to do whatever Gellert wished to do to him. One of these things was participating in a dubious dark arts ritual. Such a shame they'd been interrupted.

Gellert leaned forward, his dark blue eyes glinting with pleasure, as he said: ''Gellert Grindelwald.''

''Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore.'' Albus introduced himself and this very, very nice man looked a tad less nice just because of that _mess_ of a name. Gellert thought, from his limited knowledge of the english, that that name was peak english culture.

Ariana brought them food when Gellert's stomach unapologetically screamed for nourishment. He ate them with more pleasure than anything his aunt's elf had prepared. This was _food_. It was broth and it was _good broth_!

That evening, Gellert spoke fondly with the Dumbledore family. They asked him questions and he answered (omitting how he'd gotten expelled and how Ariana had desecrated him at that Oak tree). Ariana giggled at his jokes and asked him about how things were called in Hungarian. She brought him her own herbarium and begged him to help her with naming them in different languages as Gellert's brain was finally letting him utilize both English and Hungarian. He'd never had a need to learn any of these plants in German and French so he didn't tell her he spoke those two languages, too.

Albus was nearby, looking at books and furrowing his brows. Apparently he was like their parent, with their real parents gone. Aberforth didn't like listening to Albus, this much he could tell. Ariana, especially, didn't like listening to Albus because Albus was mean and high strung.

''He needs a _special_ friend.'' Ariana said. Her light overpowered the darkness and this was a raging battle around her. Neither Albus nor Aberforth could see it, else they would have said something, Gellert mused.

''Special friend?'' Gellert asked. The English never said anything they meant and their meanings had to be uncovered under an avalanche of double entendres.

''Do you know Latin, Gellert?'' Ariana raised her brows, having noticed how he stared at her eldest brother. ''Is your favourite flower violet?''

''I know a little Latin, yes.'' Gellert was not getting the point of her questions and her codes. ''My favourite flower is a tulip, actually.''

Albus, having caught on what Ariana was doing, waved at her behind Gellert to shut up. Gellert did not see this was he was too busy answering Ariana's many, many questions that were weirder and weirder. There was a cultural shock here.

Ariana saw Albus waving in a 'no' formation. He was shaking his head and mouthing at her: ''Stop this. Stop! You are a horrible sister. Stop this.''

Aberforth was petting his goat and murmuring sweet nothings to it.

Ariana, having decided on something, was not about to just quit it. Gellert was obviously not getting any of her coded messages so she just decided to forego them altogether: ''You fancy blokes, mate?'' At Gellert's still confused expression that could not be blamed on the concussion as much as his learning posh english, Ariana reiterated: ''Are you a homosexual?!''

''Oh.'' Gellert's face lit up with recognition. He was so happy to finally understand what was being asked of him: ''Yes. Yes, I am!'' Proudly he answered.

Albus Dumbledore, who had stopped trying to get Ariana to listen to him and had his hands in his head, kind of raised his head with hope in his eyes. Because this foreigner was very, very, _very_ sexy. With his long blond hair and his dark blue eyes. Oh. This man was very, very, _very_ striking.

Especially now that he was queer. It was like a light had lit itself above Gellert and Albus.

''Good.'' Ariana said to Gellert. ''Because so is Albus.''

If Aberforth's account could be taken into consideration - Gellert Grindelwald had whipped his head in Albus' direction with speed unbeknown to humanity. It was faster than the fastest broom at the market, certainly!

Albus waved at Gellert sheepishly. His face was as red as his beard.

* * *

Lena, Merrythought, and Beatrice cut down a tree and were levitating it towards the cabin. They were going to, as Beatrice said: ''Decorate the living shite out of it.''

They saw Arsenije and Zorka leaning on the cabin outside and beckoned them in.

The first thing that filled the room was Hermione's charming and youthful laughter. She was leaning on Montgomery as she screeched at something that Marko had said. Montgomery's laughter, a contrast in tone and pitch that enriched hers, joined. Mentor and apprentice were lost in their joy.

Merrythought smiled at the sight in front of her, fondly looking at them both. Lena broke them out by saying: ''We're conjuring our own decoration and if you're one of those people that think stars go on top we're going to have to fight because angels go on top.''

Arsenije, devout Orthodox priest, had this to say: ''The Orthodox Church backs you, vampir.''

Lena gave him a thumbs up.

Nobody was a stars-on-top person after this declaration of war.

They spent a good portion of this part of their day decorating. Because almost everyone had opinions on what was going on the Christmas tree. The only one that didn't have anything to add was Montgomery Goldsmith. He sat on a couch and watched everyone. This was an odd birthday, was all he could think.

* * *

''Your birthday's today, is it not?'' Bathilda Bagshot's voice sounded shrill with glee. Gellert nodded. He was helping her tidy up her personal library. She didn't think an elf could do it as well as she herself could, but given her age she'd made Gellert help her. Dust got everywhere. He sneezed a few times in succession and she told him off for being so weak against dust. ''Go to your friends, Gellert.'' her expression remained stern but her tone was fond and Gellert knew that she cared for him deeply. He waved her off and told her he'd be by _after_ dinner.

The sun scorched above him. He had turned 17 today. His parents had not written him. It was only morning, he said, they had time to do so.

Quick and decisive steps led him outside Godric's Hollow and into the nearby forest. From behind a tree emerged a pack of gingers. Albus embraced him first, in a deep kiss. Gellert let out a laugh, having been caught off guard. He returned it just as passionately. Their magic danced a dance of love, burning like earthy summer. His Albus always wore the most ostentatious robes. Aberforth said that they'd belonged to their mother and that Albus had used spells to alter them to fit him. Albus had cursed him afterwards for saying this. The Dumbledore brothers liked to fight a lot. Neither Dumbledore saw the other as any authority figure. Ariana told him, while the two fought, that they could go deeper into the woods together.

''You look so enchanting.'' Ariana said as she leaned on him for support, growing tired quickly. Her magic burned out much faster than there was precedent. It was as if something inside her ate her magic. _It was as if her own magic ate itself._ ''Like a proper Fairy king.''

Gellert smiled. He made trees dance and the stones sing for Ariana's joy. She clapped along with them. They'd prepared a picnic for his birthday, out in spots few foreigners like him could be privy to. There was a river nearby that coursed through diligently. No river could be stopped, Gellert mused, only ever diverted. Just as his expulsion could not stop him from pursuing his dreams and his ambition, only divert him for a little while.

He would find his way back to the main course soon.

Aberforth left them. Albus glowered whenever Ariana told him to make up with him.

''You're both being rude.'' Ariana said. Gellert didn't intrude on this family's moment. He just ate his cake and stayed in his own lane.

''Things will be better when he goes to Hogwarts.'' Albus said. ''You'll be much easier to manage on your own.'' Then, happily, ''Especially with Gellert here.''

Gellert asked when Hogwarts started. September 1st, he was told.

''Well, Albus.'' Gellert said, gently, ''I'm 17. I'm an adult magically.''

''Congratulations!'' Ariana said. Albus did not parrot her because he sensed the dread rolling off each word.

''You're leaving, is that it?'' Albus disliked the fact that he couldn't follow. That by his own parents' actions his youth had been squandered on caring for Ariana, on caring for Aberforth, on having his phoenix wings _clipped_.

Gellert looked and saw red. This was not the kind of red that he usually associated with Albus. He saw bloody red. He saw rage. He saw it connecting with Ariana's light, drenching it with droplets of watered down crimson.

He didn't know what it meant. But nonetheless he _saw_. And his eyes hurt, like a visceral pain only magic could inflict upon him. It was worse than if acid had been thrown. He closed his eyes and cursed colourfully in Hungarian, holding his head. Ariana grabbed hold of him. He could feel her magic. It was scared. Always so, _so_ scared. He'd not dared ask what those muggles had done to Ariana, but he loathed those mongrels more and more as the days passed.

Soon, the burn faded and he opened his eyes. ''Yes, I'm leaving. I have things to do.''

''But you're coming back?'' Ariana asked. She was always the most level headed Dumbledore. ''Of course, you're going to see your family - and then you're coming back?''

''Yes.'' Gellert said, gently, because Ariana's magic was acting up again. The world around them dimmed and her darkness hissed. The grass underneath her wilted and rotted. He took her hands in his and smiled: ''Of course, I am coming back.''

When she smiled the world was washed in light. The grass mended. As if nothing had happened.

Albus didn't speak about this the entire day. By the time it was Gellert's cue to leave for his home, he snatched Albus' flower-patterned robe and dragged him somewhere private: ''To talk it out, like proper wizards.''

They walked a good distance in silence until it was broken by Gellert's: ''I have made you upset. I apologize.'' He kissed Albus' nose and then his lips, and then trailed down to kiss his neck. Albus squirmed, pressing against a tall tree. He kept glancing towards Ariana's direction, always so concerned with people's thoughts, but she was far away. He thought that this had nothing to do with talking. That Gellert had just dragged him farther into the heart of the forest for this.

Albus kissed him back while he still could. Gellert smiled into his neck and whispered: ''I have plans, Albus, such glorious, _beautiful_ plans.'' Without being prompted he explained: ''Magic is might, Albus.'' It felt electrifying to hear his name spoken. Albus leaned into every touch, every kiss. He listened to such exquisite words. Words that blamed the muggles for his predicament. For his being trapped as some unwilling parent to his siblings. Words and ideas that could change the world for the better.

''Muggles are the reason why we hide.'' Gellert was against the statute of secrecy, and why shouldn't he be! Albus hated it, too. He hated hiding. He hated having his father in Azkaban because he'd gone and made those muggles hurt for hurting Ariana. ''Muggles are, also, the reason why we are not unified under a magical front. I seek to make the world better, Albus. Don't stop me, please.''

''No, I would never.''

''Remember, it's all _For the Greater Good_.'' Gellert said. Albus chorused it, his face alight with ecstasy.


	26. Death in December II

Abraxas went straight for the Headmaster's office. Once he entered he knew that all of the portraits watched him keenly. Unlike any other time Abraxas had gone to Albus' office, this time it felt bare. Like there was something fundamental missing. It didn't take him much to realise what was missing. He only needed to see the small ledge where Fawkes usually rested to see that the Phoenix was gone.

Feeling exhausted, Abraxas sat in the Headmaster's chair and waited. Right across from him was Dippet's portrait, sleeping of all things. Abraxas went to wake him up for a laugh, unsheathing his wand, and before he could will his magic onto the portrait a tired, powerful cough stole it away.

Clusters of pox formed over his palms and across his scarred face. The rest of them were hidden by clothing. He'd overshot it today. Especially for having not taken his potions in his hurry.

The Cup materialized then, suddenly, and said: ''May I check something?'' A torrid scream sounded not too far away, probably a horcrux... it sounded like a Tom.

Abraxas let the Cup check.

* * *

Eggnog was not a thing in Montenegro. So, Lena and Ilinka fused their old Balkan minds together to think of concoctions good enough to be drunk for New Year's. They spoke an odd combination of Montenegrin and Albanian. Lena knew rudimentary Montenegrin as she knew Greek because these were Albania's borders. They were going to make something so potent that come New Year's you would think that you were in a whole other dimension.

Hermione, remembering her stint in Munich, elected not to drink. Nobody gave her shite about this because to them, Hermione was a small child and children didn't have to drink if they didn't want to. After everyone (excluding Hermione) had gotten one of these in their organism, there began _questions_.

''Why haven't you found someone yet, Zorka?'' Marko asked. ''You and Monty a thing?''

''I am disgusted and horrified.'' Zorka answered and poured herself another drink. Being an alcoholic on New Year's was really good because nobody could tell her shite. Except the voice inside her head telling her to be the bigger person and quit. Zorka drowned this voice.

''Which one of us would you save first if we were drowning?'' Beatrice asked because she felt a little off kilter about having Merrythought's love divided between herself and Lena.

''Can't you both swim?'' Galatea deadpanned.

Lena nodded. ''I can swim. Though, I actually _float_. I can make myself as light as I want to be. My body's more magic than flesh.''

''That's not the question, Galatea!'' Beatrice said. She was, also, capable of swimming.

Galatea got the real meaning of why this question was being posed and snapped her fingers, signalizing that she had an answer that would satisfy them all. She pushed up her robe sleeves. Lena and Beatrice watched. Next, Galatea flexed and said in a very heroic voice: ''I have two arms. I shall save you both.''

Lena and Beatrice were too mesmerized by Galatea's beauty to fight, realising that they could be perfectly content together.

''What if I was drowning, too?'' Montgomery asked, joining the conversation because it was in English and the rest were all in slurred Montenegrin. They'd conjured additional furniture so everyone could sit around in the cabin.

''Lad, honestly, maybe some drowning would do you good.'' Merrythought said.

Hermione snort-laughed at this.

''Why is she here?'' Lena asked, gesturing Hermione.

Beatrice inferred this as rude and said: ''Lena, this young girl is his apprentice.''

''Yes, but apprentice has family of her own.'' Lena replied. ''Is it not New Year's?''

''My parents are on a workcation with some of their dentist friends.'' Hermione answered. She'd written them to ask about their plans for New Year's and they'd written back telling her that they could all go on a vacation together after it. There was an apology in there, too, but Hermione had been too exhausted to read it. Viktor had asked her to join him, but Hermione didn't think that would be wise, per se, what with her being on a mission! Plus, Viktor was probably going to be with his family and Hermione didn't know if she wanted to meet with his folks, that was - just - wow, _a lot_. The Weasleys had extended an offer and Hermione had nearly gone, but then Narcissa Malfoy's gift to her had arrived. (Shipped Late November, and then held on nearly every border as they checked what was passing through their country) - and Hermione realised what a blessing she'd been handed to stay close to Montgomery Goldsmith.

''I should go to dentist.'' Lena said, touching her fangs self-consciously. ''They hurt. I haven't gnawed on human flesh since 1960.''

''Do they hurt because you have not done this or because of something else?'' Hermione inquired, politely curious. Though, if Lena were a private person it would border on prying. Fangs were a private affair for most vampires.

''I think I need filling or crown.'' Lena answered, still touching the fangs. Hermione guffawed at this, not expecting such a straightforward answer. ''They haven't been the same since my last encounter with a vampire hunter, back in 1960. Nasty business.'' Lena shuddered. ''Tore apart his jugular.''

''What happened?'' Beatrice asked. She placed her hands on her lap and waited expectantly. Her voice never rose above a whisper, but Lena had vampire hearing so it was fine. Galatea could be loud for all three of them.

''There is misconception,'' Lena began to speak and everyone listened. They all sat around on furniture taped with written theorems of an unstable, brilliant mind. ''That a stake to the heart can kill vampire. No, it incapacitates vampire. It is equivalent to needing large blood transfusion to awaken. Stake to heart is coma inducing. You'll wake up, but only if you have gotten to your coffin.''

Beatrice hummed, discontentedly. She could not picture a coffin as salvation. For her to be trapped in a small space of any kind was murderous and terrifying. Lena patted Beatrice on the back, smiling at her wearily. Beatrice returned the smile. They liked each other because they loved Galatea. She brought them together against all odds that existed.

''I say this to you because I was threatened with either this stake or a bond.''

''Bond?'' Hermione tasted the word strangely in her mouth. She tested it out again and asked what she meant by this.

''Bond created and transferred in hunter circles. It is painful. What it does cannot be compared to the sun.'' Another shudder. Her voice cracked, but she willed strength and she continued: ''My sire fell to this bond. Hunters find you and they take what is dear to you and then the smart ones, they tell you: ''I shall kill this child of yours, I shall kill this love of yours, I shall destroy all which you take dear to heart and I shall enjoy them if you do not take bond.''

'' _What_ is the bond?'' Beatrice asked.

Hermione turned to look at her mentor. He had an impassive face on as he sipped tea from a mug and watched, knowingly of this tale.

''It is a seal.'' Lena explained. ''One that you must accept. Dark magic demands respect and acceptance. It is strange but it is so. Another sick way of manipulating vampires, demanding they themselves consent to torture and death. Vampires live by magic, breathe by magic, think by magic. We exist solely because of magic.''

Nods from all around. Lena reclined in her chair and remembered, not fondly, but not with the same terror she once would. ''Every being, creature or human, has magical output points.'' Hermione asked where they were and Montgomery explained that most of them were in the palms, face, and few across the body. ''Magic is in body and then when spells are cast magic is out of body, materializing what is wanted. The bond is runic,'' Lena, rune expert, shrugged. ''it seals them off. It makes you stop being able to use magic painlessly. But to feed demands magic. Our fangs demand magic. Our bodies demand magic. Our souls demand magic. Unlike you witches and wizards, _vampires are made of magic_.''

Beatrice leaned forward in her chair.

Hermione's mind processed information. Much more quickly than anyone present in that room. Her fingers drummed along her leg. Her leg drummed along the hardwood floor.

Galatea had gone with the Mrvaljević family to get firewood. Zorka had shivered in Ilinka's presence and the overbearing mother had demanded they bring in firewood. Said something about those unhealthy warming charms being unhealthy - as she'd stared at warming-charm champion Montgomery Goldsmith.

''So, what the bond inevitably does,'' Lena didactically explained, taking out a packet of blood from her robe pocket to pour into a nearby mug and drink it, feeling sad and cold and wanting something, anything, ''it makes you unable to feed. You are consumed by your thirst because you can't do magic.''

When Lena drank the blood she did not hide the reaction her body made. A full body shudder ran through her. Her claws hardened and glowed with a new coat of magic. Her eyes looked stronger, less hazy, sharper. Power surged through her. Her fingers snapped and the couch Montgomery was sitting on vanished. He fell on his arse and asked if this was really necessary. Lena grinned at him. She snapped her fingers, returning the couch – but it was a little to the left. He sat back on it and glowered like a peeved child. Hermione watched in fascination as Lena leaned forward a bit to scratch his head with her claws.

''Without magic we cannot feed. Without blood we cannot feed our magic. Without feeding our magic we die.''

Beatrice let out a small, quiet – but undoubtedly horrified squeak.

''Back before vampires knew what the bond entailed they were quick to jump to it. Some even willingly sought these hunters out, wanting to become human. My sister and my sire died of this. I watched them suffocate, clawing. Their bodies betrayed them.'' Lena gripped the mug painfully. ''When I was captured and offered between a stake and the bond I knew what to choose.''

''Isn't it usually between the bond and the sun?'' Montgomery inquired.

''My hunter was stupid, I admit.''

''Lucky you.''

''Would have chosen the sun either way. Better to die quickly than to die drowning in my own thirst. Sun lasts minutes, up to hour, and this lasts days upon weeks upon a _month_ depending how often you need blood.''

''This is barbaric!'' Hermione couldn't help but shout.

''Yes. This is why I am activist. People are afraid of vampires, but when we have food we are not feral or crazy. You would be feral, starved. Besides,'' Lena rolled her eyes, ''it is not like our bites can kill you or turn you if we are careful. Magic is _intent_. We can feed and you can feel bliss while we do so. So many international... what is word... brothel?'' Lena said as if merging the words bro and hotel. The h was silent in her pronunciation and Montgomery did not have the heart to explain to her. ''Yes these places have so many employed vampires. People what is word for that – starts on f – makes me uncomfortable.''

''Fetishize.'' Montgomery answered knowingly. This had been a conversation in Albania she'd had him memorize. Every day, without fault, on repeat. The entire bloody coven had debated about this and Tom Riddle had remembered being overwhelmed.

''Yes, humans fetishize _and_ demonize vampires. You cannot have both! We are not horror prop for you to get off on!''

How they strayed from the bond to this loud and very passionate vampire activism, Hermione did not know, but she was very proud.

Galatea came back with the Mrvaljević family then, carrying lumber to light. ''Lad, come over here – there's **fire**.''

''I am not a child!'' he was coming nonetheless, with an eager step. Nagini and Crookshanks nestled near the stoked fireplace.

Hermione excused herself to go upstairs and fetch something. Now that Montgomery was drunk-ish and vulnerable if Hermione did the ritual with his robe she could write the Order immediately and they could apprehend him. A part of Hermione, though, still told her that she was silly for thinking this. _That she was becoming the Moody of her generation._ This was a sobering thought, but one that Hermione ignored.

* * *

As the Cup examined Abraxas, he was asked a question: ''What are you doing?'' Cup kept poking Abraxas' scars and asking if him all of them appeared first on his palms and face.

''Usually. I'm not naked so I don't see where else they form.'' Abraxas answered, strangled by a cough. Cup tutted at him.

''Would you strip for me if I asked,'' Cup teased and even raised his brows at Abraxas flirtatiously. Abraxas giggled at him. This Tom Riddle was in his early twenties. He was working in Borgin and Burke's – Abraxas could tell because he had those racoon eyes of his that he'd had by doing inventory every night until the wee hours of the morning.

''Did I ever mention Lena Ajeti to you?'' Tom Riddle asked, offhandedly.

''No?'' Abraxas tried recalling. Tom pressed hard against one of them and Abraxas gritted his teeth in pain and before he could swat the horcrux away he, himself, pulled back.

''Yes. Well. Good news, Abraxas. You are not ailed by poison!''

''Then what the blo- cough - _is it?_ '' Abraxas screamed, overcome easily with rage. He could not tear his eyes away from the horcrux present in his line of sight. The Diadem had sent him here, had told him he knew how to - no - no he wouldn't lose his cool. Abraxas breathed in.

''Do not concern yourself with that, now, Abbie.'' Tom Riddle leaned forward and pressed his lips against Abraxas'. Abraxas balked at the other's affectionate tendencies. ''The point is that it's not poison and that we now know how to cure you!''

''You mean to tell me you DIDN'T know how to cure me before?!'' Abraxas _screamed_.

The Tom shrugged and vanished.

Abraxas laughed in disbelief and continued his mission, finding his life one sad, terrible happenstance to be told as a cautionary tale. Portraits shushed him. Dippet's nearly awoken portrait waved at him good naturedly.

* * *

Nurmengard walls were lined with wards that Gellert Grindelwald had put up initially to keep his own enemies from escaping. In 1945 when he'd been tossed in it as his own prison, the wards had been altered by an incompetent hand. Gellert had kept quiet on this. Yet every year he would untangle one ward and put in the same one, but with his own magic. So that the more years passed in his prison it would become _his_.

At least, that was to say, the part of the prison where his cell was located on.

Every morning he would wash his face and linger on the eyes. They hurt to see through. It cost to see the future, thought the discarded seer. The sight of the future demanded payment from the present. When he was young he didn't mind much. Prophecies coming to him like sledgehammers had been ingenious. He'd enjoyed them and helped use them to fuel his movement. They'd started when his magic had matured at 17.

His eyes were nearly silver. Faded and dying. The most he could ask of them was to read one letter from his aunt and that was it. He didn't even beg for books anymore.

Olga had not yet arrived and the other guard had left earlier.

A caw tore him from his thoughts and his self-hate. Gellert neared the bars of his window and saw a red smudge approaching. It was the shade of red that his Albus had been.

It passed through the wards because Gellert allowed it. Once it propped its claws onto the window Gellert could see that it had something in its beak. Carefully he said, not believing for a second: ''Did Albus send you?''

''Caw!'' It spat out a letter from its beak. Gellert scrambled to take it and see it and his eyes burned, but with tears that made this an even more difficult task.

Dear Gellert,

This is a difficult letter for me to write.

''Oh, of course, _Albus_.'' Gellert laughed. Now that the man of the hour had finally deigned to write him. Now that the love of his life had finally, finally decided he was worthy of his time.

I admit that I should not have burdened you with my self-loathing after Ariana's death. This was my fault. You had no play in that tragedy, except, perhaps, that of an onlooker of a horrible family my ambition drove to the ground.

* * *

''Stop them! _Stop them!'_ ' Ariana screamed as she ushered Gellert to get between Aberforth and Albus. They'd kept arguing all summer and this was the culmination. Her magic screeched with terror. Gellert brandished his wand and surged into the fray of their battle. ''Stay inside, Ariana!'' he called out.

Three incantations. Three wands. One was of a hotheaded teenager that hadn't known to take into account the wind of their charged magic when he cast the spell. It ricocheted and splintered off into the ground. Another was of a prodigy that was there to hold back punches and try to keep everyone involved in the duel alive and well enough to talk it out. His spell hit its intended target square in the chess and he fell, immobile but alive. Leaving the last of the duellers: a young man so full of himself, so angry, so desperate for his own path that he decided to do something unforgivable. It was aimed at the teenager, but it missed him when he fell down - surging straight for a little girl that had not stayed inside.

Gellert saw her ever stirring magic stilling. Ariana Dumbledore was fourteen when she died. She was not beautiful because no child was ever beautiful in death.

* * *

Aberforth does not speak to me, if you wonder about our relationship. He gives free lodge and food to my least favourite students just to spite me. The sight of Tom Riddle (that immortal fink I told you about in 1945) drunk and aching after he'd made another horcrux is a picture engraved in my mind forever.

Speaking of Tom Riddle. I'm happy to announce that I'm finally dying!

Gellert inhaled sharply at this. He'd known, of course, that it was coming – because his Albus would never write him until a strong external force had forced him.

That snake's left a cursed horcrux to take away my life-force. It's a Hallow, too, Gellert. It's the Resurrection Stone. Fate is funny. You've dedicated your entire free life to searching for the Hallows and I, a humble bystander in this grand scheme of things, have found myself in possession of all three.

Gellert was choking on his own spit and refused to believe his eyes. The letters were wrong. Albus Dumbledore did not just imply –

Though, hear me. I have more self control than you do on this matter. I have not held them all simultaneously. As apparently you must do this to activate the mastery of Death. I fear this power, Gellert. For a Gryffindor I may not be as brave as most speculate. However, bravery is but a figment of our-

Gellert skipped ahead because he hadn't the time to read Albus' philosophical banter. Two fifths of the letter were him talking about Gryffindor bravery, what it constituted, and the conclusion that wearing green meant that you would be swayed by the dark arts, and then _a bonus_ where he spoke how the dark arts were _bad_. If there were a camera system installed in his magical prison, Gellert would have looked at it.

I was unkind to you. Looking back on things I see you loved Ariana just as much as Aberforth and I. It was unforgivable to blame you for her death, but it helped to delude myself. Nearly a century later I finally have enough strength to speak about this. I loved you, Gellert. I daresay I may still love you, but the pull of your words and your ideas was terrifying. This is the first and final letter I send you.

I leave you Fawkes. If you promise to take care of him he will do so to you as well.

Gellert inhaled shakily. He turned to the red smudge. It cawed at him sadly.

No matter how many times I keep writing this letter I find myself incapable of finishing it. Do you remember that wedding we attended?

* * *

Gellert Grindelwald was not a wanted man in 1920. He was a man that was wanted in many circles, but not in any legal ones as one could not prosecute him for simply _talking_. Loads of people talked. Muggles liked to go from tavern to tavern and talk about who to blame. Gellert was doing nothing but that exact same thing, except, being magic, he was doing it much more fluidly and in many more places.

So, when a Lord Malfoy got married to a French Lady Durant that was distantly related to Gellert's mother – Gellert Grindelwald took the invitation. It'd been 21 years. Surely Albus was ready to talk to him.

His Aunt Bathilda looked at him, a grown up man. The purple tendrils moved across her throat and Gellert now knew not to ignore these types of signs. His eyes were fading the more he used them. But people believed him better if he used them. If he told them of the things he saw. The horrors that would await them by the muggles. That their eradication was For the Greater Good.

''Muggle eradication is not a new concept.'' Bathilda told him, but allowed him into her home easily. He nodded appealingly, but refused to listen to a Historian that knew that History repeated itself and that Gellert would do nothing but repeat something unachievable.

''What happened to the Dumbledore famil—brothers?'' Gellert's voice quieted when he had to correct himself. Ariana remained a constant reminder. He had done a lot of digging since her death and found out a lot about Obscurials. If one could just get to such a child from a younger age, when they could be controlled more easily - oh, then the options would be _limitless_.

''They sold the house. Albus lives at Hogwarts as a teaching assistant to Cosma Prewett. Aberforth bought a pub. It's in Hogsmeade and it's called the Hog's Head. Uncreative, for my tastes. Crude looking. Brutish. You would love it. You like crude things.''

''Albus is a masterpiece.'' Gellert defended, bristling at his aunt's words. He'd cut his hair short and it fell into his eyes which just served to hurt them even more.

''Albus Dumbledore is a _blood traitor._ '' Bathilda Bagshot said, harshly, honestly. Blood traitor did not necessarily mean someone that called purebloods wrong— but someone that had crossed a fine line between honouring his blood and killing it.

''He's in pain and he needs help.'' Gellert said. ''I'll take him out dancing. He's like a showy bird with all of his robes. He'll enjoy the wedding and I'll enjoy being with him.''

Bathilda laughed. Her lungs almost gave out how hard she laughed. Gellert almost called in Healers. Bathilda still laughed and told him that Albus had changed. _A lot._

Gellert found out why when he saw Albus. _Muggle suit wearing, short haired, teaching assistant Albus._

''Your sense of style has turned horrible.'' Gellert whispered in awe how much one person could change when rattled to their absolute core.

''Short hair is a mess on you.'' Albus drank from his coffee cup that Gellert hadn't seen, too busy staring at the MUGGLE suit? SUIT?! **_His_** _Albus? In **TROUSERS**!_

''You got my letter, yes?'' Gellert knew that Albus had gotten his letter because Albus had opened the door and not balked at Gellert's presence, but he was grasping for straws for conversation. He couldn't just open with: Hello! Remember how you killed your sister. That's nice. Want to date?

No, Gellert had more class than that.

Albus drained the coffee and nodded. He offered Gellert his arm for Gellert to apparate them. Gellert did so, without another word.

Hyperion Malfoy was a sight. He and Yvette Malfoy kept twirling about each other like - well, like newlyweds. They danced and everyone followed suit, entranced by their happiness. From the bride swirled a surge of colour, each more vivid than the last that captured the groom in a lulling grip. He laughed and twirled her on the dance floor.

Gellert looked at Albus, who was sitting down and ignoring everything around him.

''Want to dance?''

Pause. Gellert thought that maybe Albus hadn't even heard him. Then he stood up and said: ''Fine. Let's have our dance.''

Gellert said nothing. He smiled and accepted, pulling Albus to the floor and enjoyed pressing against him. He let Albus lead, always aware how the man felt off kilter when his masculinity was put under question - or so he'd been like this 21 years ago. Wealthy purebloods did not have these problems, but his Albus was a halfblood come from very little.

For the first half of the dance they let music enter their bones and move them on its own accord. They surrendered and let passion lead. Let the world simmer down into quiet only so they could see and hear each other's steps. Albus stared into his eyes and asked: ''What's wrong with your eyes?'' One was much darker than the other. _Inner_ eye my arse, Gellert wished to say, Fate took what Fate wanted of Seers.

''Let's not talk about my eyes. When yours are much more beautiful than mine.'' Gellert smiled. Albus gave a half-hearted smile. He was an exhausted man, drowned in essays, and lesson plans, and _guilt_.

Gellert wished to kiss it away. He wished to take Albus far, far away from this forsaken Island and have them live together, revered as gods.

''Do you still search for the Hallows?'' Albus asked, quietly.

Gellert leaned close enough for his breath to tingle Albus' ear as he whispered: ''I'm only missing two.''

The Elder Wand thrummed. The Elder Wand beckoned for action. It compelled. It screamed. But Gellert refused to hear its calls tonight. He danced with Albus and he wished and he longed and he _yearned for this exquisite man_.

Albus did not have the reaction Gellert had expected, though. He'd looked fearful. Wary. Their dance ended quickly. After the wedding Gellert asked Albus for a conversation. For a chance for them to be together again.

''I dream of you often.'' Gellert admitted. ''Us strewn near rivers. Coiled together and watching stars. Don't you miss those summer nights? When we talked about my plans and you planned them _with_ me. How we compared translations of Tales of Beedle and the Bard. You longed to bring back your family so we could travel together, remember?''

''I'm free to travel.'' Albus said, bitterly. ''I'm free to do whatever I want now. Neither of my siblings are in my care.''

Gellert gulped, ashamed at his own words. ''I didn't mean to bring those memories up. But yes, you are free to travel now. Will you come with me?''

Albus regarded him softly. He inched away and Gellert didn't go to grasp him, didn't move to hold him, knowingly, horribly aware that this would only scare Albus off more. He shook his auburn head. ''No. I won't.'' What a difference such a word meant. Won't rather than Can't. Especially to those whose English was not a native tongue, who'd learned what these words meant with rules and structure, not fluidity and flippancy as natives absorbed their own language. The difference was _stark_.

''You're playing a dangerous game.'' Albus told him. It was said gently. It didn't feel gentle.

''It is one I intend to win.'' Gellert said, raising his gaze powerfully. He hid behind his words to camouflage the way this rejection broke him.

''I want to stay out of it.'' Albus said. But later, when Gellert would be considered dangerous by many, everyone would remember the halfblood with which he'd come to a wedding. And then he wouldn't be able to stay out of it.

''I respect this.'' Gellert said, painfully. ''But you are wrong not to come with me.''

Pause.

''You would enjoy this.''

The Elder Wand screamed.

''I know you would.''

Gellert's eyes hurt.

He saw Albus dying.


	27. Death in December III

Albus Dumbledore returned to Hogwarts, called in by Minerva to deal with his school like a headmaster ought to. This surprised him because usually Albus treated his job simply as a title and not, as the title suggested: an actual job.

When he entered his office, he did not know it would be the last time he'd entered it. Not, that was to say, until he'd seen Abraxas Malfoy aiming his willow wand at him. Then, he only thought: This is it.

It was thought of with resolute finality. He did not think to fight the course of Fate or deny his death. No, he simply greeted Abraxas like an old friend. ''Hello, Abraxas.''

''Albus.'' Abraxas returned with a polite nod. He held himself tall, his hair let loose to cascade down his shoulders, curling at the tip with magical energy sparking hungrily. His hair was grey. This was a reborn man. He did not look like a Malfoy, not without the platinum hair.

His eyes were not red, but they were the kind of silver that he'd remembered his Gellert having in their later years. Abraxas moved like a spectre, mindful of each step he took – feeling disbalanced solely because he had no cane to depend on. Yet the crutch he used now, Albus mused as his gaze lingered to the bracelet knowingly as the Ring glared in its direction, this was more dangerous than anything he could have brought upon himself.

These games were much more dangerous than any Gellert and he had played. Albus carefully asked if he could take a seat. Abraxas denied him. He flicked his wand to the door and gestured they move.

Albus did not fight him. He'd sent Fawkes off to Gellert, gifting him away. He'd corralled Minerva to go help Severus as Moody was always taken with her sensibilities. He'd distanced himself well enough from the other faculty members that they did not know what to do if he was in peril – that they did not even know he could ever be in peril, thinking him some sort of omnipotent god among wizards...

No one would come to his aid. This was fact.

His blackened, cursed, rotting hand stared at him just as he did at it, lowering his gaze momentarily from Abraxas' eyes. Gellert's eyes.

''I won't desecrate this place with your blood.'' Abraxas said, courteous to all of the previous and future Headmasters and Headmistresses of Hogwarts. ''Let's go to the loo together, Albus.''

* * *

It was Hermione that asked.

''Could you make that bond something a human had to bear through?''

And it was a divided and telling answer she got.

Her mentor, Montgomery Goldsmith: _''Yes_.'' he said with utmost certainty. Only a man so sure of his own knowledge and intelligence could speak like this. It was like he'd conducted experiments on this very same topic and knew the ins-and-outs perfectly.

Her mentor's mentor, Lena Ajeti: _''No_.'' she said with clear conviction. Lena peered confusedly at Montgomery.

Beatrice and Merrythought had gone with Marko and Arsenije to look through trinkets he'd brought them from abroad. There was this little thing – Galatea it's a DIGITAL camera? How MANY did you say it can store? THAT many! Galatea, I'm a photographer now!

Ilinka and Zorka were talking off in the far corner of the room.

It was one hour to midnight. Each second was awaited. Every tick of the clock brought them closer to a new year.

''Why not and why yes?'' Hermione had acquired her seat as the umpire.

''Yes because it's possible. If done right and altered specifically with the magical signature of a specific human in mind – it can be done. The bond is universal for you vampires or does it require your own consent?''

''It's coercive consent, but nonetheless you've got to let it in yourself.'' Lena shuddered, breathing hard. ''Fucked, is what that is. It deserves to be eradicated, not spread from vampires onto wider population!''

''You misunderstand Hermione's question, Lena.'' Montgomery smiled, nonchalantly talking about this bond as if it were not inhumane. ''She asked if it could be done, not if it should be done.''

''How _can_ it be done then?'' Lena asked, her claws hardened with intent to shred. She stared straight ahead at her ever-hungry pupil that would devour the entire world in chaos because he could.

''I'm not saying it's going to be identical. As you said, vampires are made of magic. Wizards simply have magic. The most you could do for humans is seal off their magical output points and have them live perfectly reasonable and normal lives as squibs – or!'' Montgomery clapped. ''They could die rather than live as squibs, i.e. any and every pureblood I've ever met in my long, long life.''

Hermione remembered his being seventy-one. Hermione said: ''Aren't you in your forties?''

''When you get to be in your forties, Hermione, it's going to feel very long for you, too.'' Montgomery said, not missing a beat.

''People are aware of bond in medical branches.'' Lena pointed out, happily. The more this spread the less it could be used. Some Egyptian healers even conducted research into creating possible cures.

''Mask it with another illness. Throw something in there that looks too distinct to be anything else. Confuse the masses. Suppress the victim's magic, but also strike their vanity! Whenever they try to use magic have their skin _break out_. Have their lungs combust. Have them dying and have them dying quickly. I'm not a monster.'' Montgomery Goldsmith said. Then to Hermione: ''This is all just theory talk, apprentice-mine. No need to concern yourself.''

''No. Not concerned.'' Hermione said. Very concerned.

''This is interesting take on it. But, how does victim accept the bond? Wizards are more wilful.''

''Have them drink it.'' Montgomery's wrist moved, fanning away concerns casually. ''By accepting the drink in which you've infused the bond - Yu's theory of runic distillation circa 452 for the ignorant masses wondering how something physical and magical can be melded with liquid – they accept everything going in the drink.''

Hermione wrote down the theory, planning on looking it up. It sounded dark and it sounded alluring and what the Order didn't know couldn't hurt them, not really. She wouldn't lie to herself that she wasn't interested in all of these types of things, especially whilst influenced by freethinkers surrounding her.

''That can go wrong in many, many ways!'' Lena said, familiar with the theory. ''This is unbelievably flippant.''

''And!'' Montgomery straightened up. ''By putting it in a drink, plus the side-effects of the victim still using magic with the bond – they'll think it's poison – and then they'll think it's an illness – but they'll _never_ think it's a runic bond created initially for vampires.'' He snapped his fingers and this was equivalent to his closing statement. If he were less of a nerd it'd be likened to dropping a microphone.

It was twenty-one minutes to New Year.

Lena blinked. She aimed a finger straight at Montgomery and waited until words came to her mouth. When this long and complex task was finally accomplished she said: ''All of this on condition that you've calculated the victim's magical blood correctly. If he drinks it, then his blood absorbs most of it. Magical blood knows how to filter most foreign substances.''

''Yes, of course, you need to check if they have any muggle relatives because their structure is different than ours and -''

''No.'' Lena said. ''It is you who misunderstands now.''

Montgomery gritted his teeth and gave her a pleasantly infuriated smile. ''Explain. You can speak in Albanian if you need to.'' He jabbed at her poorer hold on English.

Lena barred her fangs at him in warning and was shown the difference when this time her pupil did not relent his rudeness. Aha, Lena thought, so it is the _Lord_ I speak to now.

Nonetheless she spoke in Albanian because Hermione didn't know it and there were things she needed checking. ''When did you attempt to make this horror?''

''Early 70s.'' came the answer, also in Albanian, ''I _succeeded_.''

''Who did you use this on? Was it really as successful as you hoped it would be? You erred and I need you to realise this. Vampires are all the same. When we die we are rebuilt anew. Our blood drains and we fill ourselves with blood of others. It is not factor to take into account. Wizard blood _is_.''

Montgomery didn't immediately answer. ''A close person with peacocks,'' he couldn't say the name because Hermione knew the name, but Lena understood. Her eyes widened.

''You are truly mad.'' Lena whispered, horrified. Her form shrunk from its offensive position. She thought of Beatrice, she thought of Galatea and then understood that she could never cross the line her pupil had done.

''Yes, Lena. I am. Mind telling me where I went wrong?''

Lena recalled Abraxas Malfoy using magic in Faerie. Silver eyed like the fairies running from Galatea's magic. He had looked so worn, so tired. The bond was meant to kill in a month. How long had he lived like that, she blinked and finally said: ''Were it any other man, I am sure it would have worked.''

''You speak of him as if he were a god.''

''No. Not a god. He's a simple man whose ancestors decided to fuck fairies. There's nothing extraordinary in that. Except,'' Lena snort-laughed into her hand, realising where her apprentice had steered wrong, ''you probably forgot that there's nothing more resilient and filtering than the presence of fairy magic in blood.'' Lena waited until the other shoe fell.

Montgomery stood up and left. Crackles of currant littering his form. Lena followed him out.

It was eight minutes to New Year.

* * *

Albus Dumbledore stood in front of Gellert with his wand drawn and his expression numb. Whether he'd schooled it as an expert legilimens or if he always became numb when thinking of Gellert and their past, remained a mystery.

Gellert's fingers chipped away at the Elder Wand. He barely saw how Albus looked like. He wasn't a smudge, but he was blurry. He'd foregone the ghastly suit this time, at least. This much he could differentiate.

Half of his face was going numb. Gellert saw. Gellert saw. And how much did Gellert hate seeing. Especially the vision that forced him here.

''You actually came.'' Albus whispered, in awe. This hurt Gellert. He would cross any Ocean and any Star just so he could be with Albus. Yet Albus gripped his own wand with such nervous rigidity only a duel to the death could bring. The death of his movement and the death of his heart. Either way Gellert lost.

He pointed his wand to the sky and Albus flinched, taking on a defensive position immediately.

From his wand shot a turret of maroon mist. It engulfed their surroundings, but didn't leave them shrouded in it. Crackles of electricity shot off like spells being cast. To the outside world they would be duelling. Gellert achingly took a seat on the ground of the pasture they'd gone for their duel.

Albus watched him in disbelief. ''What are you doing?''

''I am not going to duel you.'' He waved the Elder Wand. ''Not until you've heard what I have to say, Albus.''

* * *

Abraxas didn't question a single thing happening to him. Because he had drunk Felix Felicis and nothing would go wrong. Nothing would ever, ever go wrong when under its potent control. His body moved. His mind moved. His wand moved. Most importantly: Albus Dumbledore moved.

He stared at the horcruxes dangling off of Abraxas' newly acquired bracelet, demanding the _Hallow_ where Tom Riddle's soul lay. He stared at Abraxas' _green_ robe. And he remembered that he was a _snake_ from Slytherin.

''Oh, I was _way_ off.'' Albus laughed. Abraxas asked him what was so funny.

''Prophecies.'' Albus smiled. ''They're really so hilarious.''

Abraxas harrumphed. ''Prophecies are hogwash crackpots believe in.''

''I've always been more of a cannabis enthusiast myself.'' Albus admitted. Abraxas narrowed his eyes, muttered something about Albus' always being taken with the Herbology professor during Abraxas' time as a student and said: ''I _knew_ it.''

* * *

''You're being absurd.'' Albus told Gellert. They were sitting on the pasture and looking up at the mist. Neither looked at the other. How did this look from the outside, Albus wondered? Did people think he was fighting with all of his might to save them from the tyrannical forces of his ex-lover?

''No, I'm not.'' Gellert defended. ''I am perfectly right. Every time I close my eyes I'm bombarded by your death. It plagues me. The only reason why I've answered your call is because if I put this in a letter it would seem like a poorly worded threat on your life.''

Albus snarked: ''Can't have that.''

''No. No, I _can't_.'' Gellert spoke with an american accent.

''How _do_ I die then?''

''A snake kills you. I see flashes of green.'' Then, the most painful part of this. ''You have the Elder Wand with you and you are hunted because of a Hallow. I see nothing else on you except the Elder Wand . Therefore I know you win it from me somehow and then, because of this, you die. It's painful, Albus. It's horrifying.''

In 1945, the only snake that Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore had ever known capable of killing him for the sake of ascension of power was Tom Marvolo Riddle.

He relayed this to Gellert.

''I'm going to kill him.'' Gellert said, decisively, like a decisive man of action he was.

Meanwhile, Albus was not processing this offer well: ''No, that would be bad. No. _Maybe_. Not now. Actually. I feel conflicted, Gellert. He's a really evil child.''

''Children can't be evil. They can be criminally inclined.'' Gellert taught. ''How old is he?''

‘’Seventeen.''

''Teenagers need the most guidance. If you're so worried about him, why don't you take him in hand? Be his mentor.'' Albus nearly gagged from the horror of that mental picture that he couldn't lock away into the deep bowels of his mind. This did not deter Gellert. He'd learned to be like his Aunt Bathilda in the sense that he ignored other people's misery if it wasn't life-threatening. ''In Durmstrang graduates have the opportunity to learn from masters and specialize in trades they're interested in, paid by the school. Doesn't Hogwarts have this?''

''No.''

''I think your students would benefit from this.''

''It does sound interesting. Maybe in fifty-three years we'll get around to implementing it.''

Gellert owlishly blinked at him. ''That's a specific number. Have you become a Seer?''

''No, I just like to guess and then write down these guesses and when I'm in a position of power act on them. I once did this with Horace, my colleague. I told him that Gryffindor was going to win the House Cup with 321 points and he told me that that's too specific of a number to bet on. I spent the entire year taking away points and giving points while doing mathematical gymnastics. If this continues I am going to become proficient in Arithmancy. And you know I don't understand it.''

''Arithmancy is what people without the _Gift of the Sight_ content themselves with because they're foolish and think that just because they know how to multiply two numbers that they THINK mean something gives them the right to encroach upon my territory. I am a real Seer, Albus. I can't be –''

''Your English has improved ever since you put on an American accent.''

'' _Never mention America to me again.''_ Gellert hissed.

''Don't tell me what to do. My goal in life is to become an unhelpful old man with my own agenda that finds being clear with his intentions deplorable. And I'm going to dress how _American_ mage models do from now on.''

''Oh no.'' Gellert said in the most monotonous tone of voice he had ever mustered. ''Think of the children.''

Albus cracked up first. Gellert followed. The mist thundered. Once their laughter died down they spoke of a less fond topic.

''You need to surrender.'' Albus said. Then added: ''Please.''

Gellert closed his eyes, held his wand, and sighed: ''If you do not take the wand from me. If it remains with me I shall let you go. You do not deserve to be treated that way.''

''See. Now I think that you've invented this entire vision about me dying because of this ultimatum. No, Gellert. I am taking the wand and I am giving it to proper authorities.''

''No, Albus, _you won't.'_ ' Gellert smiled. ''Because you are just as power hungry as I am, but you limit yourself to teaching school children whom you hate.''

''I don't hate _all of them_ ,'' lamely Albus said.

''Just very specific children.''

''Mark my words. Tom Riddle's going to kill me.''

''Not if I kill him first.''

''Gellert, I love you, but I wouldn't know how to explain that.''

''Easily. _I_ run now. _You_ get beaten in this duel. but I leave you alive because of my deep affection for you. While you're nursing your wounded ego I go and take care of this Tom Riddle. And then we elope as the Masters of this World, everyone bowing at our magical might.''

''That sounds wonderful except for the fact that I don't agree with you politically anymore and that Tom Riddle's done something. I don't know how to even search for it, but I gleaned it from his unguarded brain once in passing when his occlumency was very poor – he did _something_ and he's immortal.''

''This complicates things.'' Gellert muttered, then louder: ''Plan B!'' he stood heroically, arm to hip, on looking into the thundering, blazing mist.

''What?''

''I become Master of Death alongside you and then we order _Death_ to kill the bastard.''

Albus scoffed. ''You're obsessed with controlling Death. There are consequences for this, Gellert. Just you wait. I have outgrown this ambition and you ought to as well.''

'' _Never_.'' Gellert Grindelwald said. ''The Hallows are my life's work.'' The symbol of his movement was that of the Hallows joined togehter.'' _Our_ life's work.'' The symbol of his love for Albus was that of the Hallows joined together.

Albus didn't say anything.

The mist raged. They'd been talking for over two hours. This encounter would go in history, Albus dreaded.

''We should duel for the pensieve memories they'll want of me.'' Albus said. ''People won't trust my word.''

Gellert nodded. ''Smart thinking.''

''How are we doing this?''

''I'll just throw a few cruciatus curses at you.''

''If this hits me in the face, Gellert, I will be cross.''

''Fire at me a killing curse once or twice, Albus, don't forget you're here to kill me.''

''No. No, I'm here to apprehend you.''

''So no unforgivables? You're going to be the bigger man?''

''Gellert, for Merlin's sake, just duel me. It'll come spontaneously.''

''If you want to do a shoddy job fine, but I am a man of character.''

''Did you see the Statue of Liberty?''

''Yes. It was awesome.''

Albus tried not to laugh. ''I can't get over the accent, Gellert.''

''OK, fine, _piss off_.'' Gellert shot first. Albus was a blur, but he dodged. Then it was his turn.

* * *

Albus Dumbledore, much alike every old person alive, thought that they knew better than the youth. Therefore when he saw Abraxas Malfoy he saw the student when he was a teacher.

The green robe on him transformed into green Slytherin uniform.

The silver eyes, deadened by life's cruelties, morphed into a shade that was just a tad less knowing.

''Mr. Malfoy.'' Albus called.

''Albus.'' Malfoy returned. He was in the present and did not see a professor worthy of being addressed like so.

They'd gone down to the halls of Salazar Slytherin's serpent. Albus waited for her to strike, having gained enough knowledge from the Ring.

''Beatrice will devour your heart, Albus Dumbledore.'' He spoke unkindly. The power of Death crossed through his words. His form switched from Ariana's to Tom Riddle's. Albus did not think his sister could be so cruel. Ever. Even when she tried to be because Aberforth and he told her life deserved her every cruelty for the things that had happened to her.

''I find myself surprised, Albus.'' Abraxas questioned. ''Why are you so willingly following to your death? You can't trust me this much, honestly.''

Albus only needed to see Abraxas Malfoy's shallow thoughts to find that he was aware of Tom Riddle's being alive. In fact, Abraxas Malfoy was so pissed off that he'd found a reason to live. This was unhealthy, but spite was a motivator just as potent as anything considered healthy could be. Without fault, Albus glanced to the Resurrection Stone, then to the Elder Wand, and came to the realisation that Abraxas Malfoy could be the only one that if asked prettily by Tom Riddle for the Hallows would deny him.

This made Albus' having to relinquish his hold over the Hallows come more easily.

Tom Riddle was a master manipulator and a conniving demon dressed in human skin, but Abraxas Malfoy saw right through him as Gellert saw right through Albus. They were both gifted with the sight, except their branches had differed. They were both in love with poor halfbloods with ambitions that their surroundings and circumstances disallowed them from pursuing.

He was wrong to see himself in Abraxas Malfoy. Not when Abraxas painted a perfect picture of his Gellert. When it was Albus and Tom Riddle that had bloodied their hands with familial blood.

Except, Albus knew there was one similarity he could count on when it came to himself and Abraxas. Neither cared for immortality. Both were not afraid of dying. Death would not be ruled by either of them. Gellert and Tom would run the world into the ground so they could be its wielders. Power starved both of them. This was why he allowed to be led down to his death.

Abraxas Malfoy was not a threat to the world. He was a lazy boy with money and a legacy to uphold. Being Death's Master was too much work for him when all he wanted to do was be on a long yacht with a few of his chosen peafowls. Or his thoughts told him as much.

''I do not believe you've got it in you to kill me.'' Albus said, merrily, finally answering Abraxas' question falsely. Abraxas Malfoy had killed. He was not sober then. Now he was. Now he hesitated with conversation.

Abraxas scoffed. ''Obviously you know nothing about me.''

''I am surprised that you never made a horcrux with Tom. As far couple activities go this seemed on par with both of your eccentricities.'' Albus jabbed. Much alike how in another world Severus would have needed that push to get him to agree to killing Albus, so it seemed that Abraxas needed it now, as well.

Abraxas' laughter was high, bitter. ''I am beyond his shadow. I am Lord Malfoy and he is nothing.''

''What he has done to you is beyond wrong and I understand your feelings well. But, for your own sake, do not hide your feelings behind pureblood mantras, my-'' Dumbledore caught himself, ''Abraxas.''

Abraxas seemed to process the meaning of the words better than Albus wished him to.

''You _knew_.''

It was not an explosion of fire or brimstone as most thought a scorned, sick man would unleash upon the world. Rather it was like a layer of ice cracking whilst Albus was in the middle of the frozen lake. He could not fly and had to content himself with remaining near the thicker end.

''Yes,'' Albus admitted. He had tired of hiding this from Abraxas. In his last moments he would be honest. A low, deep grumble of hissing emanated from afar. For the snake in question this distance would be crossed in so very little time.

''Who else?'' Abraxas controlled his rage. Albus had to commend this. Where their spots different and Gellert had left him for dead, Albus would not be taking this all so well. This spoke of that calm pureblood restraint that all of their children were indoctrinated into. Albus' family was passionate and full of emotions. They did not skimp on words and had to manage with secondhand, altered robes. Albus saw Tom Riddle's second hand robes and saw himself wearing his mother's altered robes.

''The Order.'' Albus said.

''Who _told_ you?''

''A Death Eater sent us a letter.''

For a brief, miniscule moment, Abraxas looked pained. He looked betrayed. This was hidden fast. Nevertheless Albus had seen.

''Please,'' Abraxas swished his wand around without casting any spell, ''tell me who.''

''Your son,'' Albus spoke, pityingly ''Lucius Malfoy.''

Abraxas scoffed and shook his head like an exhausted parent that wasn't at all surprised his child was keeping such important secrets from him. ''Oh _, of course_ it's him.'' Then he asked, immediately: ''What information do you have?'' This was not the reaction Albus anticipated. He kept being surprised by this man, fuelled by four horcruxes.

''Very little. Almost nothing. Our team is researching.''

''What of the Death Eaters?'' Abraxas asked. Pressing for information on them. ''What of the Marks?''

''Severus says they have all darkened.''

Abraxas ran a hand through his grey hair and laughed, loudly. The sound resonated throughout the chamber. The hissing returned, slithering closer. Closer. Albus kept his eyes on Abraxas. His shoulders shook. ''All of the marks? Not simply Lucius' or Severus' - ALL of their marks?''

''Yes, apparently.''

The real reason for the betrayal shone through. Given their relationship, Abraxas would deal with Lucius – but that one had always gone against his wishes so in a sense this did not surprise him. Severus was a dog of Dumbledore's. No, what hurt Abraxas most was the admission that: _''Thoros knows.''_

Albus then, in order to placate Abraxas, told him of the events in St. Mungo's. His son, his best friend, and his previous charge were going to Azkaban. ''I have sent Minerva to woo Alastor, but perhaps he will not be swayed. Not with three Death Eaters in his midst.''

Abraxas closed his eyes. He made mental preparations. Using his wand he swished it through the air and seeped magic from the horcruxes, draining them instead of the other way around. Tom owed him, this was how Abraxas justified himself.

White mist, inarticulate just as Abraxas' muddled feelings, shaped nothing, but appeared with enough power to remain formed.

''Go to Azkaban. Thoros has gotten himself arrested. Also,'' Abraxas sighed, not really wanting to add the latter part but nonetheless adding it because deep down inside he cared, ''if you could save Lucius, that would be stellar. Like godfather like godson, I suppose.'' Then, again, not really wanting to, ''Eileen's boy is there. If you have time. Thoros is priority. He's very sorry for the faux-leather, darling, don't let this be the reason you refuse to save him.''

The wobbly, confused patronus fled through the entrance they'd slid into.

''I heard from the students that your patronus was a snake.'' Albus merrily jabbed. ''This is some sad snake.''

''Firstly, I am not going to expend effort and thought on a corporeal patronus when I have no need to. _That_ was a demonstration for students. _This_ is efficient.'' Abraxas huffed, hiding the fact that he didn't know what to think to conjure a corporeal patronus anymore. Not after Tom's actions tainted their memories together. He placed one hand to his hip and berated. The horcruxes were keeping him from falling over. His head was woozy.

The patronus had slinked off and Albus asked whom it was sent to. Abraxas fanned this away: ''A resurrected woman. You don't want to know.''

Albus probed the other's mind and saw Walburga Black's face. ''Now I _want_ to die.''

''Just so you never ever go near her?'' Abraxas smiled with his crooked teeth that hadn't really healed since Walburga had punched them. Perhaps she might even finite her magical lingerings.

''I went a bit deaf, Abraxas.''

Hissing.

''Our entire generation went a bit deaf.''

Hissing.

''You know, Abraxas, I told Gellert about her.''

''Mh?'' Abraxas stalled, scared of what was to come. He had forgotten that he would be killing a person with ideas and loves and emotions just as any other. When high all of this faded to obscurity. He had Lady Luck on his side. Beatrice emerged from around the corner finally and looked at Albus' back. ''What did you tell Grindelwald?''

* * *

Albus was panting from the choreographed duelling they had finished with. Their forms littered with easily healed wounds because they needed to get a hit here or there to make it believable. Gellert blinked sharply, clenching his hands into fists and biting his lower lip roughly, drawing blood. He sat down first and Albus followed him down. Albus saw Gellert in pain and asked him if he was all right, obviously seeing that he was not.

Gellert laughed at his politeness: ''So English, my dear Albus!''

Albus huffed. He inched closer and grasped Gellert's hands away, touching the Elder Wand only briefly with his skin. It beckoned. ''Let me see your eyes.'' Gellert allowed him. One was completely silver now.

''What did you see?'' Albus asked.

''Snake. Green. Hallow. That's all I see.'' Gellert laughed. He grasped hold of Albus' hands and begged him not to take away the Elder Wand . ''You die _horribly_!''

Albus asked when. Gellert didn't know when. It could be tomorrow for all he knew.

''Arithmancy would tell me when. Divination is so useless.''

''Says man who knows neither Airthmancy nor Divination''

''Still. You make a poor Seer.''

Gellert closed his eyes and pressed icy hands over his eyelids. ''Talk to me, please. Say funny things while this passes.''

Albus leaned his head on Gellert's shoulder and whispered: ''There used to be this girl in my class. Walburga Black has the voice of a banshee and the money of an aristocrat. I took a few points from her once and she got her father to come to school to threaten my job.''

''I assume you gave the points back.''

''Of course I did, Gellert. I need this job. Dippet, that's the headmaster, he's too busy arse licking the Blacks that he can't even see that one of his bloody students is a murderer.''

''Walburga Black's a murderer?''

''No, Tom Riddle.''

''Ah your future killer. What's he like?''

''He is frustrating beyond your wildest dreams. I would relish in seeing him under a cruciatus curse, even! If only it would get him to mind his own business and not infest the world with his _schemes_.''

''Do it.''

''No, I am an educator and he is a child. I have never cast a cruciatus curse and I will not do such a terrible thing.''

''Let me do it.''

''What good would it do now, Gellert? The boy's beyond help. I fear he will be the new Dark Lord.''

''Wait.'' Gellert taught. He opened his eyes. ''Wait and then strike him when he is most vulnerable. You will triumph, Albus. You brave, ingenious, beautiful-''

Albus kissed him. It only made their departure and Gellert's ultimate surrender harder.


	28. Death in December IV

''You're a fool!'' Lena shouted. ''You're a fool and a terrible one _at that_!''

''What you are, Lena, is simply too close-minded to fully grasp the nuance of the miracle I have unleashed upon the world.'' Tom Riddle said, speaking Albanian still. They'd decided to go outside so they could yell at each other in peace. Lena's magic twisted and lashed in chastisement at Tom Riddle's. He put up shields around himself, tinged ever so slightly with currant. Madness danced in his eyes as he spoke back, cruelly: ''I hadn't expected such backlash. What, has my dear mentor grown a **conscience**?''

Lena glared, falling silent.

It was frost around them. Not necessarily from the natural forces of at winter bay, but Lena's magic heightened everything around them. Tom Riddle's magic melted and hers froze over twice as quickly.

''What you did is disrespectful in a way I see you will never understand. There are lines, _boy_ , that should not be crossed.''

Tom Riddle laughed, wand in hand. He gestured himself and snarled: ''My _existence_ is a line that has been crossed.'' Alluding to the amortentia. Alluding to the horcruxes. Alluding to the transmutative works necessary for his body's creation. His existence was warped and so he allowed his mind to be as well. One would call this a fair chain of events. One would not be wrong, but it would be unwise to bring it up in his presence.

Lena was the one that yielded, detaching herself from the situation and understanding that no duel would bring Tom Riddle clarity. That to him human lives were toys to be played with. Perhaps that had been her mistake when teaching him all of those decades ago as a young boy, that he would know what vampires were and that he would not seek to make himself into a monster.

She closed her red eyes so she didn't look at his. She could feel his magic crackling dangerously. She could hear him hissing in seething in frustration. Somewhere she braced for his attack, but it didn't come. He knew his limits and he knew better than to take his chances with her. Not when he was addled by alcohol, emotions, sentimentality, and his own thoughts.

Her eyes opened and he, not expecting her attack, didn't throw her out of his mind as expertly as he'd have hoped. Lena managed to see a memory that he kept close to his mind's surface, especially now when the topic of his madman's brilliance haunted him.

_Sitting across from him in a dining room with a table as long as a most apartments was a woman with black hair and awe in her eyes whenever she looked at Tom Riddle. ''My lord,'' her voice dripped with love, ''are you all right?'' She touched his shoulder and he'd learned much more self-control than he'd possessed it as a child. He did not flinch. Merely stared at it. The hand bore a wedding ring._

'' _Bellatrix.''_

'' _Are you all right?'' She forced him to speak to her. There'd been a duty her aunt had pushed onto her._ If you will be his aid, then aid him in every manner. Make sure he survives to win us this war _– had been her aunt's words and they were clear as day in her interactions. She had listened, but she had loved him like a father. It pained her to see him in grief._

'' _No.'' He answered her plainly. In his mind stretched a runic map, infused with dragon pox, sprinkled with terror. There were so many people that did not deserve magic. There were so many people that deserved to die. ''Bellatrix, do you think everyone that has magic deserves magic?''_

'' _No.'' Bellatrix said, thinking of mudbloods and creatures and blood traitors. ''Magic is beauty that needs to be kept in circles of power.''_

'' _I grew up muggle.'' He confided and Bellatrix's eyes widened a fraction. She betrayed nothing else on her face. ''It made me respect magic. Every act of magic I do is deliberate.'' He spoke of his disdain for people that acted on their magical whims. He disliked people not in possession of their own wits. Mrs Cole flashed in his mind. It did not befit wizards and witches. Abraxas Malfoy flashed in his mind. They were above_ muggles _. Bellatrix agreed, not knowing that he spoke of the purebloods with hatefulness unprecedented._

'' _What's brought this on, my lord?'' Bellatrix inquired, carefully. Her voice was always level with him, having realised he disliked loud people. Whenever someone spoke to him it was with the same candour one would to a mourning widow. Ever polite, ever respectful, but **quiet**._

_Bellatrix had learned of Abraxas Malfoy's being her lord's confidant and knew that if they fought that she ought to help them. It was her duty as his General to aid her lord in any way possible._

'' _I think that this world of ours, Bellatrix, would benefit from a_ cleanse _. It is my duty, as Lord Voldemort, to make sure that magical society prospers. We cannot do so with backwater thinkers and addicts. Innovation, change, prosperity must be achieved in harmony.''_

'' _Yes.'' Bellatrix nodded._

'' _Lord Voldemort is merciful. He will wait. He will see. He will act.'' Tom Riddle talked. Bellatrix's brows furrowed. ''But rest assured that he will only strike those that got in his way.'' Then to Bellatrix, whom was wary of her lord whenever he spoke like this, and it was more and more often, ''Do not be afraid.''_

'' _No.'' Bellatrix said. ''I am not afraid of you, my lord.''_

'' _You have no reason to be.'' Lord Voldemort taught. ''I hope for your sake that you never become my enemy, Bellatrix. I can ignore a good many things, but treason is not one of them.''_

Next. Next. Lena fought harder. Sirens blared. His magical presence awoke with a startle.

_Marked people watched. Someone was screaming. Lord Voldemort held a wand to one of his prisoners, sneering: ''We have a traitor in our midst. I speak to this person now directly. Your use is fleeting. I bear no forgiveness for this act.'' The man underneath his wand convulsed with tremors. Currant overflowed from the wand and the person's rapidly blinking eyes. The man was a prisoner to be interrogated. Back then he had not harmed his own without knowing full well who it was he needed harming. Lord Voldemort looked at Abraxas Malfoy, who found himself there at that meeting. His lips were pressed in a thin, firm line._

'' _Do you understand?'' Lord Voldemort looked at Abraxas Malfoy who looked to the prisoner._

_Neither looked at Severus Snape. Both trapped in their own histories of murder and madness to take a glance at the youth whose shoulders bore the future of their world._

'' _Do you understand?'' Lord Voldemort shouted._

_Bellatrix spoke first, finding her voice brave and unshaken to speak for her brethren and sisters. ''Yes, my lord, we understand. The traitor will be found and dealt with.'' Raised her wand in salute. ''To this we swear.'' More murmured similarly. Severus Snape's voice was indistinctly lost to the mass._

_Abraxas Malfoy raised his silver gaze from the bloodied mess near Lord Voldemort. He looked to him and said: ''Are you done?''_

_Lord Voldemort's magic acted fast, snuffing out the last bits of life from the prisoner. Calmly, he answered: ''Yes.''_

Lena barged through his memories. She was breaking his wards, snarling with her heightened magic. She'd been under the moon, she'd drunk her blood recently, and she was driven by anger at her pupil's gall. Years of work fell away. His mind was ungraded and Voldemort floundered to fight his way out, but this body was never meant to hold his magic. This mind was never meant to survive with reason after what had happened to his soul and his body.

This Voldemort knew. This Voldemort could not fight.

_Nobby Leach was at a piano, adding along notes to nearby parchments. He crafted melodies and sang to him. It was as atonal as was his life. Nobby Leach created where Abraxas Malfoy curated. Nobby had ideas where Abraxas didn't want to remain sober enough to think of them. He eased Voldemort into a seat next to him and they played together. Songs of victory and triumph filled the room. Interwoven with love._

''No!'' Voldemort yelled. He'd put these memories down, keeping them only for himself. No one deserved to know. No one needed to know. Lena heard his calls and told him that he ought to be quiet. That she wished to know for what he would dare create such a monstrosity, using her people's suffering to fuel his vengeance.

''I did not teach you to be like that.'' Lena said. ''I taught you magic, not the destruction of it. Have you any ideas what your invention can unleash unto the world?''

He twisted under the force of her mind attack.

'' _You are hurt by the purebloods just as much as any of us, my lord.'' Nobby Leach used Lord Voldemort's chosen name. Abraxas Malfoy clung to Tom and reminded him of his afraid, muggle father. ''A coalition is not unexpected.''_

_Mandy Sullivan (wouldn't be Leach until 1967) asked, remembering the Head Boy in him: ''The purebloods listen to you.'' She didn't call him Lord Voldemort, and she didn't call him Tom Riddle. The scar on her face glowed in different light, marking her forever. ''You once said you wanted to have power. We offer you power.''_

'' _You offer me power_ if _you win.''_

'' _No.'' Mandy spoke before Leach. ''Power is guaranteed when you join us.''_

'' _Now, now, Mandy,'' Leach tried to play peace between them. He did this needlessly, thinking them both too sensitive. Mandy had lived with him in his beginnings and she knew what he was like better than half of his Knights._

'' _All right.''_

'' _Good.'' Leach smiled, warmly. He outstretched his hand for Lord Voldemort to shake. Purebloods didn't shake hands. The gesture was welcoming and refreshing. Gladly Lord Voldemort took the proffered hand._

Acacia wood moved and Voldemort cast with it a spell just as painful as what was happening to his mind: _''Avada Kedavra-''_

But Lena twisted out of the way and green ricocheted off on a tree. It died and it would be good for firewood. The fire would be greener than regular fire, but it would warm just the same. He remembered doing similarly in Albania.

'' _What's wrong?_ Tom _, are you well?''_

'' ** _Stay away.''_**

_Nobby Leach's body cooled in his office._

_He stood back from the blinking addict in front of him, lazily smiling, his eyes shot with want and desire. Felix felicis coursed through his blood. This was **planned** and that he could never forgive. Everything else could be ignored. This, this could not be._

_Abraxas moved to touch Tom, but the other refused touch, shoving him away by his magic. ''Do not.'' His adam's apple bobbed. ''Do not come any closer.'' It pained him to speak._

_Nobby Leach's body cooled in his office._

_Malfoy Manor surrounded them after Tom had apparated Malfoy to safety._

'' _Why are you upset?'' Abraxas giggled, swaying._

'' _Abraxas,'' Tom's voice was quiet. He could see that Abraxas had to strain himself to hear. ''Do you know what you did?''_

_His eyes were bloodshot and his pupils were wide. Abraxas shrugged. He wore a robe, but looked recently afflicted which meant that his supplier wasn't muggle. He smelled of expensive wine and cheese and unmistakable talcum pureblood ladies wore. ''Oh, Tom. I did what any self-respecting pureblood would.'' His words came jumbled, not caring for refinement while he just shot off information. ''Why are you so concerned about a mudblood?''_

_Abraxas smiled. He ignored Tom's discomfort and hugged him, burying his head in the other's clothes and calling him lovely things. ''I love you.''_

_Tom Riddle nearly threw up right then on the unicorn hair rugs Abraxas had been gifted by Walburga Black for his and Antoinette's twentieth anniversary._

_Nobby Leach's body cooled in his office._

''STOP IT!''

Lena didn't.

'' _So, Mandy and I are getting married.'' Nobby Leach said. Mandy beamed, showing him her engagement ring. Lord Voldemort smiled at them, telling them both congratulations. ''We're going to do it the muggle way because neither of our families would be able to attend otherwise. I keep fighting for less rigorous laws against muggles in magic spaces and I keep getting denied around every corner.'' He exhaustedly ranted._

'' _That's rough.''_

'' _You're invited, obviously.'' Mandy said. Nobby nodded._

_Lord Voldemort startled. This would be the first wedding he would be going to. Somehow all of his followers' weddings had happened whilst he was in Albania. Abraxas' he'd been barred from by the then Mistress of the Wards, Yvette Malfoy. He'd had to find this information out from Walburga Black hersef. Oh, Voldemort remembered having made a horcrux that very night, being too tired to do anything else, and dragging himself to the nearest pub where he yelled at Albus Dumbledore with his own brother. So, no. He didn't get invited to weddings._

'' _Can't not have Lord Voldemort at our wedding. Think of what the press will say.'' Nobby Leach gasped, outrageously mimicking pureblood lords and debutants. Mandy facepalmed and fondly watched him through her fingers._

'' _I'll see what I can do.'' Quietly, timidly. ''I'm researching something important about vampires. Though it's all so pretty hypothetical now.'' Voldemort rambled, unaccustomed to this kind of situation. ''But soon I may even dabble in its realisation. Magic is limitless and its potential is so wide. What we're doing is amazing, but I can't solely be a Minister from the shadows, Nobby…''_

'' _I really wish you would come because you're rather important.'' Nobby Leach said, grinning. He shook with mirth, his magic buzzed with happiness. Mandy clung onto him. He looked at Voldemort and finally said: ''Pretty hard to have a wedding without the best man present.''_

_Voldemort whispered: ''What?''_

'' _Almost impossible.'' Mandy said._

'' _Not almost, Mandy. It's completely impossible.'' Nobby Leach placed a hand on Voldemort's shoulder and asked him: ''Please, won't you consider it at least?''_

'' _Minister, you're too good to deny.'' Voldemort flirted, next trying not to let his emotions seep through at how touched he was. ''I would be honoured. The most important wedding of wizarding kind. I would be a fool not to go.''_

_Nobby Leach hugged him. Mandy followed suit. Voldemort huffed and tried stretching himself out to capture them both. Their magic sang._

**''STOP IT!''**

Lena finally stopped. She'd felt the emotions her pupil had been feeling. Her eyes were tired but knowing. Understanding dawned in them, equally as red, but differently shaded. Except with understanding forgiveness was not a given.

''What you did is unforgivable. My kind suffers greatly. The bond falls into obscurity. If people figure out what you did it will come back. Not only this, but you have ensured that pain will spread onto humans, too. Magic is a conduit for evil, too. I taught you this. I taught you to fly, but like Icarus you have flown into the sun and gotten singed.''

''Icarus flew so his wax wings melted and he drowned.'' Voldemort whispered hoarsely. He clutched onto his head and breathed hard. His eyes could not open from pain.

Lena waved her ignorance away as a mistake that didn't need lingering on. ''You can fly without wings. I know you would fly straight into the sun if you felt like doing so.''

''I cannot die.'' Voldemort said.

''Yes.'' Lena acknowledged. ''Your lovers die and you remain.''

''I don't want to ever love again.'' Voldemort whispered. He eased into a sitting position, underneath a laburnum tree. He needed not to think. He needed time to breathe in and out. Lena's presence unnerved him. He kept waiting for her to strike again.

Lena nodded and told him that she was going back to Albania and if Galatea asked that she would be at the beach ''She'll know which one. I have lodge there.'' Then, quietly: ''I apologise for going in your mind. It was necessary. Go with Galatea, please. Ask the horcrux maker what can be salvaged.''

Voldemort shook his head. ''I will never die.'' his voice croaked, his face was stained with overwhelmed tears. Pain shone through. ''Nor do I want to.''

Before Lena could do something she might regret at such obstinacy, she disapparated.

* * *

Albus Dumbledore was not afraid. This was a lie. He was not afraid of death. This was true. However, all men feared dying.

Abraxas' wand moved. Albus made a stance to mirror him. Perhaps if he died in a duel it would help Abraxas come to terms with it. This needed to happen. Abraxas' mind was open to him, pleadingly perhaps. He could see the deal between him and the horcruxes. Abraxas Malfoy's resignation to this kind of painful existence astounded him. For a moment, when weariness shot through him from his hand, Albus understood. He empathized.

''Abraxas, do what you must.'' Albus said. He did not keep his eyes from Abraxas as the Rin hissed delightfully in parseltongue. The snake of Gellert Grindelwald's vision was more literal than Albus had reckoned.

''What is it, Albus?'' Abraxas' shuddering sighs smashed through him. ''Aren't you going to fight the good fight against Lord Voldemort?''

''I have left the task of Tom's vanquishment in capable hands.''

Abraxas nodded, thinking of the Order, thinking maybe even of himself.

* * *

This letter is not only a goodbye letter, Gellert. There is more to it than meets the eye. I hope you are capable of seeing what I mean. Do not fret otherwise. It was just a dying man's wish. Nothing important.

''This man is incorrigible.''

Fawkes agreed by sadly cawing.

Gellert glanced over to where the guards usually were. There was a clock nearby in his cell, but the arms were blurry to view. Olga usually came when it was sunrise. It was still dark. The other guard always left early because Gellert made sure to sleep through his shifts. It was incredibly unprofessional and goodness forbid that Gellert decided to just leave. Just because he hadn't in 53 years of imprisonment didn't mean he wouldn't now. Though, with his eyesight he'd just humiliate himself by trying to get out.

''What do I even do with you now that Albus is dead?'' Gellert asked Fawkes, tactless.

Fawkes cried. Gellert felt bad for making a phoenix cry.

''Oh. No. No, bird. Fawkes, no. Albus was old. He was meant to die. It's nothing to be sad about.''

Fawkes continued to cry. Gellert continued to panic.

Until it hit him somewhere after the thirteenth: ''Shh, bird. Shh.'' _that Phoenix tears could heal._

Then. Very awkwardly. Gellert began to aim his position so that Fawkes' tears fell into his wide open eyes. ''Albus is dead. He was in his _prime_ , Fawkes. He died **so young**. It's unfair. It's so sad. Cry, cry beautifully my pretty, pretty bird! Oh Albus you madman I love you!''

His eyes burned. Gellert endured.

How Gellert felt after this unflattering ordeal was similar how all vision impaired people did after getting their glasses for the first time. Details that most human beings saw except glasses-wearing folk became relevant again. There weren't any trees full of newly viewable leaves for Gellert to fawn over - but he could see every detail on Fawke's face. He could see every chip on his beak, or how his feathers were differently patterned. Gellert glanced over to the clock and saw that it was not a Thursday, but a Friday. Fridays made excellent days for breaking out of prison.

Now that he could see better, Gellert saw that his Albus had placed a charm on the letter. Gellert bit into his thumb hard, pricked it, and dripped some of his blood over the letter to reveal its real meaning. Smart, smart Albus.

Gellert, it pains me to ask this of you, though I shall take liberty as you will not mind. You never mind. I am dead. Probably. It will be very surprising if I am not. If I am not dead I am dying. There. Your prophecy still hasn't happened.

I have a request for you that you are free to deny, but do note that I sent Fawkes your way for a reason and that really, Gellert, it would be rude not to help me. I am dying. I am in pain, Gellert. Tremendous pain. This is the least you could do for me. I am the love of your life.

Gellert looked to Fawkes. ''Albus is such a terrible person.''

Fawkes lovingly cawed. Gellert sniffled. ''I know. I love him, too.''

Lord Voldemort is still alive. I do not trust people to have everything in control. Voldemort is dangerous. I have no idea what he is doing and where he is. This complicates things. Would you mind killing him? It's not like I am asking something that you, yourself, have not offered first.

Though, not now. You do not have to kill him now. He isn't doing anything. But if he does do anything, would you? It would make me so happy to have you as a contingency plan. You don't want me to fret in the afterlife, do you? That would be very rude, Gellert.

Gellert sighed like those children whose parents just told them they had an additional chore to do that they weren't told of in advance. **''Oh if I must.''**

It was not a Thursday when Gellert escaped from Nurmengard, aided by a Phoenix.

* * *

''Does it hurt?'' Abraxas asked Albus, pointing with his wand to Albus' hand.

''Immensely.'' Albus answered. ''Does yours hurt?''

''Chronic pain for seventeen years and this man asks me if it hurts. _Yes_ , Albus, it hurts.''

This was the most awkward death Abraxas had ever seen. He'd not seen many, but even if he had this would top them all. Albus silently waited for Abraxas to do something.

''I feel like you ought to know, before killing me, that I have the Elder Wand in my possession.'' Albus forewarned like those warnings on the back of detergent.

''Is this you threatening me?''

''I am dying, Abraxas. I have no intention of prolonging the inevitable. I'm over a hundred years old.''

''You're in your best years!'' Abraxas argued, not knowing why. Fear clogged his throat.

''My chap,'' Abraxas didn't argue with him and it showed how reluctant he was with all of this that he allowed Albus to call him such a silly thing, ''you're here to kill me. Be selfish and do it. Find this cure that's dangling over your head and then rid the world of Tom. Do what I did to Gellert and summon him. You are in possession of all of his remaining horcruxes.''

''That we're aware of.'' Abraxas said.

Albus shook his head and exhaled. ''I hope he has not made another one. This is already too many.''

The Ring shouted: ''Hey!''

Abraxas did not see it, but he probably saw four and that was too many Tom Riddle's to handle. Albus adjusted his glasses and felt that a fever was fighting over his common sense. It was drafty in this chamber. His body was old. He ached. He'd sent Fawkes to Gellert. Hopefully the man would realise why. Perhaps he'd gone blind irreversibly. That thought saddened him.

Albus closed his eyes once the snake had neared completely. He could feel its ancient magic just behind him. It rose and Abraxas breathed terribly fast. Albus kept their eyes locked: ''Do it.'' He outstretched his hand, the one with the Elder Wand, and said: ''Bury it with me.''

''You say,'' Abraxas' words came out strangled, ''as if I will leave a body as evidence.''

Albus nodded, coughing to clear his throat and give him peace of mind. ''Go to Faerie and throw the wand there, then.'' The shadow of the Basilisk loomed above him. He dared not look. ''Listen to me. This is my dying wish. Do not let this wand fall into Tom Riddle's hands.'' He pleaded. Abraxas listened and nodded.

''I honour the dead, Albus.'' Abraxas whispered.

''How warped our cultures are,'' Albus returned ''to place more worth on a dying man's wish than that of the living's needs.'' He felt eerily philosophical.

The basilisk's jaw opened. Razor sharp teeth dripped with venom.

''Don't look up.'' Abraxas said. He aimed his wand at Albus, who smiled at him kindly. ''How,'' he floundered desperately for words, ''how do you want this?'' He was not a killer. Oh but he was, he was, he was! He had killed but it'd been hushed up by influential hands.

Killing was hard. Abraxas breathed. How did his friends and family do this? How had Tom done this so often? How had Thoros done this during war? _How had Lucius?_

''I'd rather not be aware.'' Albus said, guiding him like a professor did a student through a spell movement and incantation and not his own murder. ''If you could first disarm me, however.''

''Expelliarmus.'' Abraxas enunciated each syllable of the unnecessarily long spell. The Elder Wand flew into Abraxas' hand. Instantly he felt powerful. His hair curled with magic, each end rising. His eyes glowed. The dragon pox remained down this time. Abraxas let go of his own wand to hold the Elder Wand with both hands. His hands shook.

Albus' words broke him back to reality: ''Abraxas, do not yield to it.''

''It does not interest me.'' Honestly Abraxas spoke. Yet the alluring power hung heavily in the air. It urged to be used. Abraxas found himself wishing to use this wand more than his childhood wand.

Venom dripped onto Albus' robed shoulder. It ate a hole through it. Albus inhaled deeply. He ordered: ''Abraxas. _Now_.''

Abraxas' magic danced with that of the Elder Wand. He murmured to it just as its magic murmured to him, pushing him to use it.

He looked up from the wand to Albus' uncertain expression hiding behind walls of sagely wisdom. Easily (the easiest spell he'd ever cast) Abraxas spoke the incantation: _''Dormez.''_

Abraxas screamed at the same time Beatrice's jaw clamped around Albus Dumbledore's upper body with an unmistakable and loud **crunch**. Bone broke under its weight and pressure. The Ring finally let go of Albus' corpse. It slid off the finger onto the ground, letting Beatrice devour Albus Dumbledore whole. It tore him apart and gulped him down into bite size pieces. Her eyes were closed. Abraxas couldn't avert his gaze. He watched what he'd done. His knees wobbled and he fell onto the cool chamber floor.

The Cup materialized and held him, pushing him to look away. To rise mechanically and go for the Ring. Once this was finished and the bracelet wore all of the horcruxes, the Cup instructed: ''Go home.'' Silent tears streamed down Abraxas' face. The Elder Wand screamed at him. The Ring was not speaking. The Elder Wand rushed him. ''Abraxas,'' Cup begged, ''please, just go home.''

* * *

It was New Year's.

Hermione gripped the purple robe, infused with the magical signature of Lord Voldemort.

New Year's Eve was _his_ birthday.

Montgomery Goldsmith sat underneath a tree outside in winter. He looked like he was crying. Like the devil in Dante's books, Hermione thought grimly. No, once and for all she needed to find this out.

Hermione did the age spell Gunther had taught her.

A number in her mind glowed. Seventy- _two_. A year older than the previous time Hermione had cast the spell. Her mind began to clear with more doubt being sown. Hadn't she met a woman, very regal looking? And another woman? When she'd cast this spell. Yes. They'd all been really old. Hermione's mind buckled down and tried to tear apart what was wrong, sensing intuitively that something definitely was. Especially now when Hermione forced herself to recount any time that her mentor had acted suspiciously.

Everyone was too busy drinking inside to notice how Hermione had wandered out after her mentor, equipped with magic and a resolve to find the truth out.

Her steel fingers gripped the robe as her wand arm moved. She did the spell expertly and then once this was done, stared right ahead at her mentor, Montgomery Goldsmith, and asked the runic spirit to guide her to her target. An arrow appeared in her head, pointing straight at Montgomery Goldsmith. Above the arrow appeared the distance: 2 metres.

 _Lord Voldemort_ turned towards her and smiled, wiping his face clean quickly to hide the fact that she'd found him emotionally compromised: ''Happy New Year's, Hermione.''

His crimson eyes stared at her and she could no longer deny or prolong the inevitable conclusion presented in front of her. It was imperative to inform the Order. Hermione froze, however, in place. Because she was just a girl raised without a threat. She had not had war to sharpen her skills, only duelling lessons with _Voldemort_.

Hermione remembered that she had the man's favourite robe in her hands and shoved it deep into her satchel bag.

Without the use of legilimency he could not know. Hermione steeled her mind and calmed her breathing. It would do her no good to fall apart. Not in front of her mentor. Not in front of someone as bloodthirsty as Lord Voldemort.

''Hermione,'' his voice sounded fragile, as if something had rattled him. Hermione had seen Lena moving angrily, cross with him. To think she'd met the woman that had shaped Lord Voldemort. Merrythought Galatea spoke to him, knowingly. How people could forgive his actions eluded her. But then again, Merrythought had been away and his crimes were unknown to her. Lena was foreign and had been away, indifferent to his matters.

He towered over her, not by much, but nonetheless it was too much. Her eyes trailed warily towards his wand. It was drawn and abuzz with magical energy. It'd been recently used. Hermione breathed in and shakily put up a smile. ''Happy New Year.'' She said.

Curtly he nodded. There was a dash of mist present in his red eyes. Hermione knew why they were coloured so now. It was not an experiment gone wrong, but a murder gone right.

Around them loomed trees. They were bare without leaves, haunted by the cold that burrowed into their bark and waited for thawing spring. Owls hooted and he looked towards their direction, directionless otherwise. His legs shook. His form bent oddly, like he was more snake than man in this body. Halfway his mouth opened and he hissed something in parseltongue. Hermione sucked in a breath, unexpectedly.

He surged towards her, grabbing her hands and pulling her closer. Next, music lilted from the air, born from a man incapable of holding his mind together. Hermione fretted. Now that she knew that this was Lord Voldemort his touch felt like hot coal had been pressed against her skin. Whatever Lena had done to him had made him unstable. He hummed along to the tune. It wasn't any song Hermione could place. Disjointed, rhythmically unsound, but familiar.

He forced her into a dance. Magic swirled around them: hers frightened and his confused. Hermione forced herself to speak, trying, perhaps, to ground him: ''Sir, what are you doing?''

''You wanted to learn how to fly, Hermione.''

Hermione hated herself for her everlasting search for knowledge. She hated for ever wanting to learn anything from Lord Voldemort.

''We can do this later...'' Hermione pried one hand from his (he let her, with ease, showing her he was not trapping her but merely guiding her) and pointed to the cabin where anyone that could help her was located. ''Everyone's waiting.''

''I'm tired of everyone waiting.'' The music, cascading atonally, continued. It was made for a piano. He confessed: ''I'm tired of everyone concerning themselves about my decisions.''

With the added context of his identity, Hermione feared such words. His hand grasped one of hers still. The other gently pulled her back into his hold. Hermione breathed with panic, finding no chance of calming herself completely. All of those exercises of clearing one's mind came surging, reminding her. This was hard.

''How will dancing help?''

Her question was ignored in favour of them dancing towards a clearing. They moved past trees and chirping owls. Discarded twigs broke underneath them. Her mentor hummed. Energy released around them and Hermione felt them rise off of the ground. She clutched onto his hands for help and he smiled reassuringly towards her.

''Do you love Viktor, Hermione?'' Voldemort asked her about her boyfriend. She tensed and his grip tightened. Not, Hermione found, in alarming manner – only to make sure she didn't fall and injure herself.

''I don't know how to answer that.''

''Don't be afraid to say you do.'' He taught her and Hermione balked at such honest words. They were open and it was always easier to tell others how to feel than themselves.

''I like him. I want to spend time with him.'' Hermione said. ''Love is strong. It's illogical. It's bright and blinding.''

''Yes. Love is all of those things.'' Voldemort spoke. Hermione didn't know what Voldemort knew of love, especially with the tales she'd heard in the Order. Yet he spoke with calm finality, she could see that his face had tear trails. ''Love isn't meant to be wasted. Nonetheless it is. The Greeks have different names for love, you know.'' Hermione did. ''They love so fiercely. In parseltongue there isn't a word for love.'' Hermione thought this odd. Every language had love. Everyone felt love. Felt something _like_ love.

''I met Nagini. She told me of love. To see a snake speak so fondly of love inspired me. She said that she _learned_ it. If I did not feel love as other people did, it was fine, I could try to learn it.''

Hermione took a moment to marvel at his magical ease. This was a man that toppled many to their deaths solely by a flick of his wand and a snake made of fiendfyre (oh god, oh god oh god the fiendfyre) This was a man that rallied the masses to the clink of his words and champagne flutes in aristocratic manors (oh god how easily this man found followers wherever he was – in Merrythought, in the parselmouths, in Lena, in Zorka)

''Did you?'' Hermione asked, emboldened.

''Yes,'' confessed Lord Voldemort. ''It's the hardest thing I've ever done.''

They floated as if shrouded in clouds. Each step they took in a dance followed with music and assurance that they could find footing. Hermione couldn't help but laugh in exhilaration when he twirled her, focusing on her flying (without a broom, without a broom, with her own magic her own power)

She could feel him easing his magic and ushering her to replace it with hers. Hermione didn't wait. She learned by doing and observing. When something lacked and one knew what it was that was missing, it was easy to replicate the situation. Hermione's magic languidly surrounded them, keeping them afloat.

The music was beautiful and Hermione asked, a strain on her voice as she concentrated on keeping them dancing: ''What's the music?''

''My best friend wrote it.'' Hermione didn't believe Voldemort had best friends, aside from Abraxas Malfoy whom he'd poisoned and left for dead. His tone was sad. ''I asked him to finish it, but then he died, and it was left unnamed.''

It was like a rhapsody, Hermione found. She nodded at the tale and they continued dancing. When her mental fortitude began to break her mentor (she liked this, she feared this, and she could not forget her being his apprentice) swayed and praised her: ''You are doing amazingly, Hermione. I taught another this. He was effusive with his magic. I was younger and he was younger than you. I threw him off a cliff like children are often thrown out of windows to awaken their magical potential.''

Hermione choked on her own scream.

''I learned from then that this is a much easier way to teach. You are so much smarter than anyone I have taught.''

''What happened to your other pupil?'' Hermione braced herself to hear that the man had fallen to his death after the cliff incident.

Voldemort sighed in aggravation. His mood swing caused the music to simmer down. Hermione poured more of her magic to keep them dancing. Using him as an anchor and trying to get the dynamics of flight on her own. This was a much more demanding job than flying with a broom. His magic still lingered, guiding hers. She was thankful and horrified at how easily in tandem they worked.

''People you trust will betray you, Hermione. Your enemies can't be traitors, remember this piece of advice.''

Hermione nodded. Her hands gradually turned clammy. She began to think that maybe he'd learned of her intentions. They were high up. All he had to do was let her go and she would plummet down. This was dangerous. This was _magic_.

''That's a sad outlook on life, sir'' Hermione said, laughing. He scoffed and he was wearing her down with this exercise and the music hadn't even finished yet.

''Perhaps. You're too young to understand such things, I suppose. Or, rather, sheltered.''

''Sheltered?'' Hermione didn't like being called sheltered. People that were homeschooled were sheltered. Hermione had fought social anxiety from a young age when children from her class were invited to her party and had begged their own parents not to come. No, that wasn't called sheltered at all. She'd done things! She'd kept a woman in a jar!

Her magic twisted in offense. Voldemort's replaced it, deeming her unfit to lead them anywhere. Slowly he eased them down, telling her to mind what he was doing and do it later.

They touched down on the ground gently, not minding the cool air around them, not when their magic burned. ''What did you think of flying?''

''It was beautiful.'' Hermione said. Voldemort was a brilliant teacher. Hermione knew that if she kept quiet he would teach her things that no one could ever accomplish. Hermione had an inkling that if she yielded her mind to him and told him that she had no intention of going to the Order that he would keep her on. Having called her his brightest student. There was a comparison there, Hermione knew, with Bellatrix Lestrange and Severus Snape.

''Yes. I like to fly when I have to think.'' He confided in her, shuddering from the chill. Hermione cast a warming charm on them both. His red eyes softened at her kind gesture.

Hermione inhaled sharply. Mist formed when she breathed out. ''It's a pity that every flight has to end.''

''Yes, all beautiful things come to an end.'' Voldemort said, detesting the truth in those words. ''In such a pathetically quick and painful way, Hermione. Love while you can. Love with all of your monstrous being and be unapologetic about it.''

''Are you all right?'' Hermione asked. She saw her mentor. She saw Voldemort. She saw a man comforting her in a hotel bathroom, holding her hair and laughing with her. She saw the murderer of hundreds of people, perhaps thousands if the sum total of all of his Death Eaters' kills was gifted to him. She saw a man speaking of love whilst he'd destroyed the life of a man he supposedly loved.

''No.'' he answered and any other answer would be wrong.

Hermione would end this apprenticeship. She thought of her patronus and knew that it could cross through borders faster than any owl. Somewhat fondly she looked at her mentor. Confused thoughts crossed her mind regarding him. Munich came to mind, when her mentor had been there for her. Montenegro came to mind, when her mentor had been eager to teach her everything.

His mind was not as broken as Moody told her. His mind was not as brilliant as Dumbledore warned her.

Hermione felt like Judas when she hugged him.

His hands wrapped around her, stiffly. He was surprised and startled.

''Thank you.'' Hermione told him. ''Thank you for teaching me.''

''Sweet child.'' His age caught up with him and his words weren't nearly as American as he rehearsed with Montgomery Goldsmith's accent. They were genuine and full of love. ''You are welcome.''

* * *

Abraxas left the chamber, but did not go home as per Tom's instructions. His body was running rampant with luck. Nothing bad would come of this. Abraxas repeated like a mantra.

The Wand screamed at him. Abraxas painfully closed his eyes and screamed right back, leaning onto the door to the Headmaster's office. It swung open without the password, sensing that some eldritch horror was happening.

Cup told Abraxas to go to Malfoy Manor before anyone could implicate him with this. That Beatrice would take care of this. That the portraits' memories needed altering. The Ring joined him, speaking - but the Elder Wand 's screaming had Abraxas drowning in his own thoughts. It told him, finally, to take up the ring and place it on his finger instead of the bracelet. Abraxas obeyed only so the screaming stopped.

Silence. Abraxas relished in it gratefully.

His body moved. He sat down on the chair at the desk and breathed in deep breaths to calm himself.

''Abraxas, listen to us.'' Cup said. Ring agreed. ''You need to go home where your wards will protect you. You killed Dumbledore and our part of the deal is up. Go to Malfoy Manor and we will work this all out. Especially now with this _thing_ in your possession-''

The Diary came then. So did the Diadem. Finally the Locket materialized.

With five horcruxes present as witnesses – Abraxas Malfoy listened to the compulsion in the back of his head urging him to use the Elder Wand and unlock the drawer in Albus' desk. The resurrection stone said nothing. The wand spoke of another part. Abraxas' eyes turned glassy with want and desire. He felt powerful. He felt _healthy_.

There was some sort of fabric. Drab and ugly in Abraxas' opinion. Nonetheless he took it up with the ringed hand.

And in the far right corner he saw Hyperion Malfoy staring at him with an 'o' shaped mouth. He clapped. This was not Hyperion Malfoy.

Abraxas Hyperion Malfoy didn't hear anyone. The horcruxes were screaming at him to go back, to flee. They sensed danger and by being tied to him they could see Hyperion Malfoy's face splitting hard and wide. The skin broke. The clothes on his back loosened into silk the same shade of the cloak in Abraxas' hands. Loud, painful crunching of skin and bone had Abraxas shuddering and shaking.

The Elder Wand screamed.

The Resurrection Stone was silent.

The Cloak was the ugliest piece of garb Abraxas had ever held in his entire life.

Hyperion's skin faded away to reveal bone. Next his eyes vanished. Then the skull itself twisted in a horrendously unnatural angle.

''Oh no. Stop.'' Abraxas covered his eyes. ''Why are you like this?!''

''Ah, but Abraxas.'' Death spoke. The crunching continued as the transformation went on. Terrible, featherless wings spread from her back, pushing into furniture and silencing all screaming portraits. Abraxas could only hear himself and Death.

''What?'' carefully he asked. ''But what?''

''I think it is unprofessional to lie to a Hallow Holder.'' Death said. _''This is me in my most honest design.''_

Death twirled, cascading their surroundings into disarray. Portraits fell off the walls. Vases broke. Bookcases turned over. Abraxas gripped the desk with steel fingers to keep himself upright. He looked anywhere except for the being in front of him. With her twirl the cloak she wore as a robe billowed.

And Abraxas was never a person that knew how to properly react to stressful situations. So the words out of his mouth weren't: ''This Master of Death shtick is real?'' or ''I'm not interested. Please direct me to how I can stop this.'' Or ''Can I bring people back from the dead now that I rule you?'' or ''Oh goodness I've just killed a man and I need to have a lie in.'' or ''Could you, pretty please, cure me?''

No, when Death asked Abraxas what he thought of his brand new position

He asked: ''Can you turn your robe into something more fashionable because it is the worst pattern I have ever seen in my entire life. I don't care that you've probably worn it like this for millennia or eons – but fashion changes _every day_ and your presence is giving me a headache and'' bordering a hysteric scream, ''I am TERRIFIED! I want to go home _and I want to see my peafowls!_ ''

Death stared. Then began to laugh. Her voice was raucous. She clapped and fell over, knocking even more things down.

Abraxas held the Elder Wand, the Resurrection Stone, and the Cloak of Invisibility.

''Stop laughing!''

Death instantly stopped. Her booming laugh died. She watched him.

Oh. Abraxas' eyes widened and his mouth opened. Right. He'd accidentally become Master of Death. Right.

New Year's celebrations rang. Sound began to gently come back to him.

Abraxas watched Death. He blurted out in horror, because coherent thought escaped him: _'’Happy New Year to me!''_

* * *

END OF ACT 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ACT 1 ENDS  
> THE INTERMISSION BEGINS
> 
> If you liked this story, leave a comment 
> 
> And if you don't know what to comment and want to leave one, this is a sure way to win every author over: 
> 
> *favourite scene  
> *favourite line  
> *favourite interaction  
> *a detail that caught your eye  
> *speculation about what's to come (I personally really enjoy reading these)
> 
> Cheers!


	29. Intermission I

Books weren't dangerous on their own sitting mutely on a bedside table. No, they really weren't. They were only ever dangerous when one opened them and actually read the contents.

The truth was that the more a person read the easier their chance to grow emotionally was. Not to say that people who didn't read were stupid. No, not that at all. They were just stuck in a cycle of ignorance on many matters and they very much liked it this way. It could be theorized that these people were very afraid of change and therefore refused to budge on their beliefs, but when bored and stuck in a dormitory without electricity with January rain thundering and pouring outside – really, the only thing to do was to crack open a book and read.

Not a textbook, mind – because no university student liked to study, especially not one Dudley Dursley who sauntered over to his dorm mate's books and took out the first interesting one that caught his eye. _Good Omens_ it read.

* * *

Grocery stores were abundantly familiar with drunks. Especially that unfriendly neighbourhood drunk named Tobias Snape and his equally as unfriendly wife Eileen. Whenever they would go shopping they would drive a golf that they'd bought in 1981 to treat themselves after a menace had been killed by a baby. It was all so confusing when one asked about it. Eileen would drive because if Tobias drove he might drive them off of a cliff on route from Snape residence to Grocery store.

Ann was a university student living nearby in a dormitory and dating Dudley Dursley's dorm mate. She was quite convinced that Eileen was a witch because of how irritatingly reasonable she was. Whatever Tobias did Eileen would simply placate him and continue going down the aisle. They always left Ann some small change as a tip for her troubles. Others told Ann to call security on that brutish man, but she never did. Not because she didn't know how to dial the telephone and ring up the police, but because she didn't want to get herself involved in drama that certainly wasn't any of her business.

Tobias was criticising everything. Ann looked at Eileen with pity that she realised was completely unprofessional and stopped. Eileen gave her a bitter, offended sneer. Her hair was dark and brittle. The ends curled ever so slightly and uncurled when the probably-a-witch realised they'd done that.

''They,'' Tobias hiccupped and gestured the fruit aisle, ''they don't even have cherries. What kind of store doesn't have cherries!?'' He yelled. People turned their heads. Eileen closed her eyes. If she didn't see people staring at her and her husband then no one was staring at them.

''It's not their season, Toby.'' Eileen said gently. She was never angry at her husband and Tobias was never cross with her either. Eileen took a handful of lemons and tossed them into the cart. Tobias nodded appreciatively at the lemons. He liked bitter things, Ann mused as she watched the odd pair. Maybe that was why he'd married her? Ann didn't know.

''Yeah, well,'' Tobias drawled, blinking the numbness out of his dark eyes. ''I don't like it. It should be cherry season all year, Eileen. Why can't it always be May?''

Eileen smiled at her husband very, very sadly. ''It just can't.''

Ann's heart ached because she'd somehow gotten invested in other people's lives and ignored her university responsibilities such as a very difficult class called Roman Law. It was colloquially dubbed as That Pain In The Arse That I Am Too Scared To Fight.

The front door opened and a bell chimed. She didn't see who it was because she was too busy spying on her customers (as it was an incredibly slow day, what with some dangerous thunderstorm causing havoc in this small university town wherein a cliff was nearby, and the roads slippery with rain)

''EILEEN PRINCE!'' A voice boomed and Ann tore her gaze towards the source. A woman and a tall man had entered the shop. The man wore a great coat, scarves hiding his face, sunglasses, and a bowler hat. He looked rather queer. Ann's hands inched towards the telephone to dial the police number.

It was the woman that had boomed. She was shorter than the man, but dressed even more oddly. Ann kept her mouth shut as it looked like it was something that had come out of an haute couture magazine. Fashion eluded her completely.

''AS I LIVE AND BREATHE IT REALLY IS EILEEN!’’ Turning to the man: ‘’I _TOLD_ _YOU_ SHE WAS GOING TO BE HERE!''

Visceral fear crossed over Eileen's face. Tobias noticed it and told the woman to bugger off as she was making his wife uncomfortable. It was rather sweet. The man ignored the spectacle and slinked off to the aisles to steal food. Ann heaved a deep, annoyed sigh and went to bust the man, who was very obviously eating apples without the intention of paying for them.

''Sir, are you going to pay for that?''

The man picked up more apples. Once he finished eating one he said: ''Muggle, I am beyond your simple ways of monetary transaction for material goods.'' All right, Ann thought, she had herself another _American_ to wrangle. This was perfectly fine. An entitled tourist was no match for her! She’d been employee of the month!

''Sir, I'll be forced to call the authorities on you.''

''I have just escaped from prison.'' Ann did not move. ''I am not intimidated.'' He added. It was a very polite conversation all things considered. She chanced a glance where the Snapes were and saw that Eileen had discarded all of the groceries and had a firm hold on her husband's arm as they were trying to navigate out of the shop.

''EILEEN, ARE YOU REALLY IGNORING _ME_?! GRINDEL— _COUSIN GEORGE_ , I KNOW YOU HAVEN'T SEEN THIS MUCH FOOD IN A LONG TIME – STOP – ARE YOU EATING – NO! – STOP THAT! NO, YOU MAY NOT USE MY MONEY TO BUY MUGGLE FOOD! ARE YOU – ARE YOU ATTEMPTING TO SHOPLIFT?! CAREFUL HOW YOU SPEAK TO ME NOW! YOUR AUNT WANTED TO CALL THE AURORS ON YOU, SO LET'S BE A BIT MORE GRATEFUL I TOOK CARE OF THAT BLOODY WITCH'' Ann heard something else that rhymed with witch and was very scandalized ''WANTED TO KEEP ME PRISONER TO STUDY ME, THAT OLD BAT DID! NOW THEN! WE'LL GET YOU A WAND AND THEN WE'RE THROUGH. WHERE'S YOUR GAY BIRD? WONDERFUL, YOU'VE LOST IT. I DON'T CARE THAT YOU THINK IT'S ENTITLED TO FREEDOM _,_ WIZARD HITLER.''

The man shouted in outrage.

''OFFENDED WITH THAT LIKENING TO A MUGGLE, _ARE YOU NOW_?!'' Laughter from the woman.

Ann didn't know how to navigate today's occurrences. She just wanted it all to be over.

Mr and Mrs Snape smashed into a sprint once they'd gotten out of the shop. The man and the woman pursued. Ann didn't know if she ought to ring up the police because of how unnecessarily complicated her life would get with statements and other such things that went along with calling the police. In the end, much alike a lot of people who had their own thing going on and couldn't really find it in themselves to be proactive people, Ann did not get involved.

It was little, undeniably human things like this that caused irreversible damage.

* * *

''No. No thank you.'' Eileen said upon spotting their pursuers. The woman had a wand out and was aiming at them.

''Is it…'' Tobias didn't dare articulate the frightening word as they ran towards their car.

They knew it was magic and they knew that whatever was magic they wanted no part of. Because they were of the belief that magic had done them both no good and had, in fact, caused them a tremendous amount of grief.

Eileen and Tobias got out of the shop and ran for their car. She shoved Toby in the passenger seat and didn't bother to hook her seatbelt on because Eileen Prince was ready to die since 1968 and that longing for the sweet release of death did not make any attempts to cease and desist.

Toby told her to put her seatbelt on. He was very adamant about it. Eileen did, if only to shut her husband up. She started the car fast and slammed her hand on the gas pedal when the car allowed her need for speed to be realised.

 **Except**. As most things happened when one put magic into the mix – the car stopped. Eileen _screamed_ in her head as she looked in the rear-view mirror and saw the one – the only – the Never-Noble and Most Not-Dead **_Walburga Black_**. She brandished about her wand. A man wearing a large winter coat with a pulled up collar, sunglasses, and a bowler hat was standing next to her and talking. Eileen couldn't hear a darned thing from him, but she heard Walburga Black scream: ''STATUTE OF SECRECY? WHAT AM I? SOME SORT OF MORTAL TO ADHERE TO _LAWS_?!''

Eileen slammed her head against the steering wheel and the horn turned on. Tobias carefully checked if she was okay. She told him she was. He didn't believe her, but let it go. Her gaze tore and she looked quite seriously at the glove compartment in her car. Tobias whispered, terrified: ''Are you sure?'' And Eileen shook her head and dropped that plan right in the fiendfyre lit trash bin it deserved to lie in: ‘’No.’’

In quick strides Walburga opened the backseat door and sat behind Eileen. The other backseat door opened (albeit with more difficulty as this person had never had the opportunity to open a muggle vehicle’s door) and the man Walburga introduced as Cousin George popped in.

''Are you going to drive us now, Eileen?'' Walburga asked. Her voice was less kind when she didn't yell.

Eileen knew that fate would smile unkindly at her for her past misdeeds, but even she didn't believe she'd done this much wrong.

Abraxas Malfoy flashed in her mind, coming to her home often and out of his right mind. Eileen gulped and took back her previous thought. Her hands gripped the steering wheel painfully and anxiety built up in her chest like a caged bird that screamed in perpetual horror. Tobias briefly touched her arm for comfort. Her eyes strayed towards the closed glove compartment. She looked away just as quickly.

* * *

Eileen was a potioneer that was disowned and cut off from the Prince inheritance. Tobias was a chemist that was jobless and frantically looking for a way to earn money so he could feed his pregnant wife. He'd had a perfectly ideal job at a laboratory with a decent enough commute period, but ever since marrying Eileen it was as if he'd been bewitched by her less than forthcoming friends into losing his job and disgracing himself as a chemist. Walburga Black's fingerprints were smudged all over that hot mess.

Then, she'd had the gall to send a carefully worded letter to Eileen in which it said that if she divorced her husband and got rid of the child she could be returned to proper society. A sentence that Eileen burned into her memory heinously was the following: _It's simply a phase and one that you'll regret._

Tobias' home was all right, especially because he'd had it given to him in a will. It was free until it wasn't and it was okay until they had run out of money. He tried to get himself a job wherever he could. Eileen, even, tried to find a job because she wasn't one of those women that didn't know how to work, but would simply rather not work.

An epiphany struck Eileen one evening while she lazed painfully awake in her nightclothes, enduring yet another round of kicks from her son. Carefully she wobbled towards the small library that she and Tobias had put together. Most of the books were either about chemistry or potion brewing. Neither cared much for fiction. With magic real there was no particular need for fairytales, both thought.

Her fingers gently pulled down a book from a high shelf that she'd needed to levitate herself up to get. It read: Uncommon Potions for the Uncommon Potioneer. Eileen read it cover to cover often and this occasion was no different. Except when she got to page fifty-three and saw the Magic Amplifying Potion something in her _stirred anticlockwise and in a precisely languid tempo as mentioned in the instructions_. Whether it was her own magic booming or her son's inside her belly's crying out – she bookmarked the page and strode to see if her husband could help her.

She shook him awake and he blinked the sleep and exhaustion away, fretting immediately if something was wrong with their baby. He placed a hand over Eileen's stomach and listened.

''I can make this.'' Eileen said and told him that it was the most expensive potion on the market and profit was sure as no one made it in England and had it imported. ''I'm the best potioneer of my year.'' True, because Tom Riddle was good at following instructions and making brilliant potions, but Eileen knew how to go beyond instructions and ameliorate recipes found in books. It wasn't something one could be taught at school without a willingness to give it a go.

''But,'' Tobias looked to the ingredient list. There was only one that he, a muggle chemist, recognized among the frog's tongues, and newts, and herbs, and dashes of this and that unfathomable thing. He pressed a finger to the ingredient and hoarsely whispered, still not quite woken up completely: ''Where are you going to get the cocaine, darling?''

Eileen cracked a smile that could have easily cracked anyone's head open by how hard and wide it stretched. She looked to her husband, the chemist, and said: ''You'll cook it for me, won't you, Toby?'' Guided his hands to her pregnant stomach and added: ''For your family.''

* * *

Dudley Dursley drove with a lot of heavy thoughts weighing on his mind. They’d even driven him to stress eating. He was going to the local grocery store to store up on food like a bear preparing for hibernation. Thoughts about witches dancing a jig in his head made him consider things from incredibly different angles that completely and utterly confused him.

His family would get heart attacks from just hearing about Dudley considering his cousin and dead aunt possibly okay people. The witches in Good Omens were all so nice and sensible. They cared just as much about the world as normal people did. If the apocalypse happened, Dudley drummed his finger against the steering wheel; surely they'd want to save the world they lived in?

In his glove compartment he kept a secret stash of food that he ate to pass the time during bad traffic. It wasn't bad traffic that day. In fact, it was pouring so heavily that rarely anyone had dared step one wheel on the slippery street. Dudley minded the road with imperfect attention which he thought perfect.

Dudley cursed when he saw a car wavering about the road enter his lane. Fear slammed into him and as the windshields washed away the heavy rain, and the car drove directly towards him with outbursts of switching general direction for brief periods of time (as if the drivers fought for control of the steering wheel), Dudley grabbed the steering wheel and manoeuvred the car so he ended up crashing into a tree and not in the car that continued to swivel.

As he passed by the car he heard loud screaming. Break noises swirled in his head. Foreign, gibberish words that could possibly be a language for all Dudley was aware of littered the air. And then a crash through the road fence that bordered the street had Dudley opening up his door in the heavy rain and going to check – because his parents had made it his business not to intervene whenever anyone freaky needed help. From his mother's rants he knew that witches would never drive a car. From Good Omens, though…

Nonetheless, Dudley went to see if there was anyone in need of help. He might even be a hero and get a good reputation for his father to flaunt during his business dinners and his mother during her gardening meetings.

* * *

Two witches, Wizard Hitler, and a chemist driving in a car was the start of a tragic joke. Death found it inexplicably amusing and perched herself on the hub of the golf in form of a little girl that Gellert Grindelwald (less commonly known as Cousin George) sweated at. He'd held the Elder Wand and wanted more power over Death and so whenever she appeared he fretted for his life. Now, after his eyes had healed, he could see her vividly and knew that Death was no good omen. She winked at Grindelwald and transformed into Albus Dumbledore. Gellert looked to the floor and shut his eyes. His magic lashed out painfully, but it was drowned out in the chaos happening around him.

''Eileen, listen closely.'' Walburga had taken out her wand and threatened. Eileen swerved hard and Walburga bashed her head against the window, dropping her wand which rolled in that one spot where no one could reach it even under awkward angles. Unfortunately for Walburga, that wand was forever gone as the Snape car was warped by the mere presence of magic. How Arthur Weasley's famed Ford Anglia got sentient, the Snape car got invested in making tiny wormholes in its hidden nooks.

Happily, Eileen explained this to a frantic Walburga Black. She smiled and giggled and felt oh so pleased with herself and her car. Tobias beamed at his wife. He'd not heard her laugh this joyfully in such a long time.

Eileen's driving was bad because she was both troubled with the notion of keeping her husband alive and really, honestly sticking it to Walburga Black by getting her killed via traffic accident. A mighty urge within her emerged to simply drive them off a cliff. It was what they all deserved. It would be a form of penance, wouldn’t it?

Tobias controlled these impulses by grabbing hold of the steering wheel and driving them as well as he could in his inebriated state, as far from the street end as possible. Sadly, this led to them flying over the edge into another lane where a car drove decisively and by all accounts lawfully. That car, to save itself, drove into a tree.

Walburga grabbed hold of the steering wheel, overcome with mourning for her first wand, flung the steering wheel in the other direction, and had them cascading through the fence.

Death smiled. No one saw. Her wings fluttered in the distance as the car went down.


	30. Intermission II

A black rope, made out of magic, wrapped around an already bended elm tree on one side. The other side held an old golf full of humans that made habits of ruining their lives up in hideously unexpected ways.

Walburga Black pushed her feet against the front seat. She made it her life's goal to survive this debacle. Sweat adorned her face in forms of sliding beads that made everything more slippery than it needed to be. ''Who here knows wandless apparition?'' Her voice was tinged with hysteric fear.

Cousin George had hit his head and fallen unconscious, slumping his head on the seat in front of him where Tobias sat. Walburga Black held the magic of the rope with all of her strength, but she couldn't keep it up for long. Not without her wand. Walburga pushed her feet against the seat in front of her and demanded: _''Eileen,_ _answer the question_.''

Eileen Snape's indifferent gaze mutated into that of acceptance as she stared down at jagged rocks threatening to embed into them all, were the car to fall. The seatbelt ate into her skin. She leaned forward and didn't make any sign of pushing herself away. If the rope snapped they would all tumble. ''I do not know how to do that without a wand, no.''

Tobias was holding onto the roof handle bar with utmost strength, pulling himself up and giving himself an illusion of safety. This had sobered him up immensely. His eyes strayed from the picture death painted underneath them, towards the glove compartment. His wife's words rang.

_''Are you sure?''_

_''No.''_

''I am on a mission, Eileen!'' Walburga pleaded. Eileen kept her gaze downward when no one else could stomach it.

''Do tell.''

Tobias feared.

''I was sent by Death herself,'' Walburga lied.

Eileen's lips twitched upward in a knowing smile. She'd been the Thoros Nott to Walburga's Abraxas Malfoy and she knew a fib when she heard one.

''Liar.'' Eileen said.

''I came to visit you and see if you and your pet— husband,'' the correction made Tobias' hairs twitch in alarm (even after so many years _these people_ still saw him as a pet of his wife's rather than an equal partner) ''…needed any help.''

Eileen turned around to face Walburga then. She mouthed the words this time: ''Liar'' but the veins in her neck were pulsating. The magic in the air was dangerously thick.

''I am not.'' Walburga defended herself. Then smiled. Then outstretched her hand towards Tobias.

In lightning speed Eileen caught it, before she could ever touch Tobias. Walburga's brows rose and her hold on the magical rope _wavered_ , only for a second.

''You don't touch _him_.'' Eileen spat. ' _'You **don't touch** any of my family, you, you disgusting _**thing** _._ ''

''All right, fine.'' Walburga knew she could not get away with it with Eileen. ''Abraxas sent me a patronus to go to Azkaban and rescue Thoros, Lucius, and _your son_.''

Tobias inhaled sharply. Eileen’s hand rose from her sides to grip the steering wheel. Her legs moved to press gently on the gas pedal. The car lurched forward. Walburga screamed. It shattered the car windows. Eileen shouted past the anguished scream: **_''LIAR!''_ **Her veins shot out prominently in her neck. Her breath shallowed and quickened in rage.

Cousin George jolted awake at the sounds. His magic had reacted when sensing danger. His blue eyes looked through them and he only managed to push Eileen's head against the side window to disbalance her. Tobias then punched Cousin George in the face, not knowing that he was colloquially called Wizard Hitler.

It was a sad day indeed when Walburga Black held everything together with her magic.

''Stop it!'' Walburga yelled. The car began to swivel in mid air as everyone was not, in fact, stopping. ''Stop it right now!'' Her authority was being diminished and ignored. Walburga had never been more afraid than in the moment when she realised that her word was not law anymore. That in the long span of her death people had actually gotten their act together and stopped giving her absolute power over them. It was insulting as it made her feel as irrelevant as Grindelwald in a Voldemort fearing Britain.

''Keep my son out of your narratives, Walburga.'' Eileen said, calmer than before, now that Tobias held her. The man Walburga called Cousin George retracted his hand. It felt bare without a wand to hold. Walburga had a similar feeling of nakedness. Only Eileen was comfortable. Tobias ignored Eileen's poison and asked about Severus. The Snape family was not together since 1978. He wondered about his son often.

Walburga saw Tobias and saw the weakest link in their group. Her smile widened with glee at finding an approachable target. ''Your son is in Azkaban.'' Then she turned to Eileen and said: ''I came here to take your wand Eileen, as I know you don't care about it. Cousin George needs one and he's agreed to help me on my Azkaban raid _if_ I gave him a wand.''

''I am so tired of being referred to as Cousin George.'' Cousin George said, having been referred to as Cousin George for less than four hours, but it was enough to get him to truly hate the idea of ever being related to Walburga Black.

''Why is he in prison?'' Tobias carefully asked.

Walburga shrugged. ''I do believe it had something to do with Abraxas Malfoy, though I can't be for certain.''

Tobias looked as if slapped. He nodded and thanked Walburga for her answer.

Walburga patted herself on the back mentally for holding a civil conversation with a muggle. This ought to be written down and sung about for generations to come. ''You are welcome, muggle.''

The rope thinned and Eileen's lips twitched in an ugly sneer. Not that Eileen was pretty by conventional standards, to begin with. Of course, she would have gotten a husband because blood mattered more. That and a giant dowry her parents had set aside for Eileen, their only child. Which they'd happily sent down the river when she'd married for love.

''Eileen, do you _want_ your son in Azkaban?'' Walburga asked.

Eileen countered by not answering. Of course, as a _mother_ , she did not want her child imprisoned with soul sucking Dementors. But the cold sweat that broke out over her did lull her into accepting that maybe her son would be _safer_ in prison.

To bring a dead person back to life was meticulous bit of magic and unheard of in pureblood circles. This was not a nefarious inferi corpse. Walburga was completely herself. Even with some parts of her face marred with bone and slowly mending flesh.

''Walburga, _who_ brought you back?'' Eileen gasped out a question. Her hands clutched the steering wheel with boundless anxiousness. There was only _one_ person that Eileen thought was capable of such powerful and legendary magic. Her question was tinged with fear and she didn't see the sharp rocks anymore, only _fire_. The light left from her eyes and she felt unimaginably cold. Her magic dimmed and retreated into her, making it as small as it possibly could.

Tobias recognized that blanked out look in his wife's eyes. Walburga couldn't see it from the back as she was too busy keeping them suspended in air and not tumbling downwards. He reached out for her and whispered that he was here, that she wasn’t alone and that they were _safe_.

''I did it myself.'' Walburga was tired of waiting for an external force to come and rescue her from death. She'd played Death's game and won. It wasn't Abraxas' good will to help her, but a slight manipulation by Walburga to get him to aid her. She'd spent a good portion of her life controlling others for all of that to fall apart after her death.

Tobias begged: ''Does anyone have any ideas how to get out of this mess?'' He was holding onto his wife and keeping her hands away from the steering wheel. He nudged her legs away from the pedals. He planted a worried kiss to her cheek and waited this episode out.

''Summon your bird maestro.'' Walburga demanded of her supposed cousin.

''I have never had a Phoenix so I do not know how to summon one. I did have a grey hound as a boy, once. Here boy!'' Cousin George whistled half-heartedly and clapped. ''Here, Fawkes! I've got bird treats for you! Here lovely boy! Best bird!''

Nothing happened.

''You've either been abandoned by the Phoenix or you're doing it wrong.'' Walburga said and began calling Fawkes over in a very sophisticated way: ''Bird! Bird, come here this instant! If you do not come here you will face the wrath of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black!''

Among the cloudy skies flew a red smudge.

''Is it a kite?'' Tobias asked, furrowing his brows.

''Is it a bird?'' Walburga suspiciously squinted at the unidentified flying object.

''It is! It's my dead lover’s bird!''

Everyone tried to get its attention, waving and shouting for the Phoenix to take note of them. Fawkes flew past Eileen's window and cawed, bringing their gazes together for a singular moment.

Eileen saw red, the same colour of the fiendfyre in her deepest nightmares, and she _panicked_.

Lightning struck.

''Albus' bird!'' Walburga covered her mouth with her hands and laughed hard. She liked dark humour and to see a phoenix shot by lightning will forever hold a treasured spot in her heart. Tobias recoiled at the sight of animals getting hurt. Eileen spoke, voice shaky: ''I suppose you cannot escape, Walburga.''

''Forgive and forget, Eileen!''

''If it weren't for you none of that would have happened!'' Eileen shouted. Walburga drew back to avoid Eileen's anger. ''What's it feel like to die Walburga? Tell me it hurts, please – because I'll happily end you the second time around.''

''Eileen!'' Tobias whispered, horrified at his wife's dangerous words.

''You're hated more than I am!'' Walburga's supposed cousin cajoled.

''Eileen, stop blaming me for your shortcomings – it isn't proper-'' Eileen slammed back and hit Walburga by having her seat hit her.

''Are you going to do anything?'' Walburga shouted at the man sitting in the back. He said that he really shouldn't get involved.

Tobias turned to the man. He was more than he let on. His magical presence was as suffocating to be around as the one who hurt his wife had had. ''What about you? Can't you disapparate?''

''I've not done magic in a very, very long time.'' It was humiliating to admit. His reddened cheeks and slow speech let on. ''I would need a wand to help me get used to it.''

''That's a silly excuse!'' Walburga yelled. The rope began to snap, thread by thread. Tobias craned his neck back and saw.

''I have been in prison for fifty-three years!''

''For starting World War II! I AM NOT SYMPATHETIC TO YOU!''

Eileen stopped her attacks. They stilled just as the sky outside stilled, for one terribly cold and long moment. She looked to the wizard sitting behind her husband with repulsion.

''No, no. The _muggles_ started the war. What I did was a revolution. Spreading awareness of how much muggles are evil and needed to be put in their rightful place! I did succeed in the end, even though I was imprisoned. World War II **did** paint the muggles as horrific to a lot of purebloods and halfbloods alike.''

''Wait what?'' Tobias asked. He furrowed his brows and asked, pointing at Walburga's supposed cousin. ''Who are you, mate?''

''Gellert Grindelwald.'' Grindelwald said at the same time as Eileen did.

Tobias nodded knowingly, leaned back, and punched him in the face again. ''You fucking fascist prick, Eileen told me about you! That's for my dead relatives who died fighting in your war.''

Gellert Grindelwald was so used to magical fighting that whenever anyone came at him with muggle means he was too stumped with how to react. He retaliated by shoving Tobias up against the windshield and hissing at him to never do a similar thing again if he wanted to keep his life.

''I've been ready to die since 1968, asshole!'' Tobias punched Gellert in the solar plexus. His hands burned with the stinging hex. Eileen clasped her hands into a hammer and hit Grindelwald on the back of his head.

''STOP IT!'' Walburga yelled, again. She grabbed hold of Grindelwald and pushed him back from the Snape tandem sitting up front. **''Do you all want do die?''**

In sync Mr. and Mrs. Snape said: ''I wouldn't be against it.''

''You guilty fools.'' Walburga said this pityingly. ''Living in fear of a monster that couldn’t care less about you. He’s alive, you know. Alive and well. And he’s found out that _your son_ is a traitor.''

Eileen swished her gaze around and when her terrified eyes locked with Walburga's tired ones – lightning struck hard from the sky and the elm tree _snapped_.

* * *

Eileen wasn't the type of person ever to beg. She didn't beg her parents; she didn't beg Toby's family; she didn't beg any of her so-called friends (Walburga Black, Primrose Parkinson, and all the other girls she'd grown up and planned weddings with) and she never, ever begged a single person that she thought was beneath her for aid. Eileen Prince was a pureblood lady of an old family and whatever life threw at her she would manage on her own with poised grace.

Tobias didn't drink, but he did smoke cigarettes. At least they saved on clothes expenses as Eileen had magic to make sure they were wearable and spells to duplicate cigarettes so Toby didn't waste their money on such frivolous addictions that were a way to manage the abundance of stress on his shoulders.

''I finished setting up my part.'' Toby said and nervously glanced at his wife. She glowed fiercely with magic and love for him and their son. ''I don't know where you want your cauldron put.'' Eileen thanked him for his cooperation in this business.

''Is this really legal?'' Tobias was a law abiding citizen. Eileen was a pureblood and the law bowed down to her. At least it had before she'd married a muggle and been disgraced.

Eileen hissed in pain when Severus kicked her, dodging Tobias' question.

''Is it legal?'' he pressed even when he saw his wife pressing a hand to her stomach where their unborn son was. Usually this made him realise that everything they did they did for the betterment of their life together.

''When used as a part of a potion made to heighten the drinker's magic it is perfectly legal.'' Eileen sighed calmly. His Eileen never lost composure. It was something that Tobias loved about her, as she was his rock to lean on for comfort and stability.

Eileen took out her wand and asked: ''Why, Toby, is something wrong about the supplier? Did anyone give you a hard time?'' Tobias didn't know how to feel about the fact that his wife was ready to maim a person giving him a hard time, when it should have been the other way around.

Tobias shook his head and said that all of the ingredients had been collected.

''Good.'' Eileen smiled.

Tobias didn't feel like this was any good, but for those he loved a man was willing to do terrible things.

The lab was in an extended part of their home, locked by wards to keep all of the fumes from seeping into the rest of it.

''It has to be from leaves?'' Tobias had had a guy. Eileen didn't mind where the leaves came from as long as the rest of it was made under her watchful eye. They needed to be the best on the market. What a strange thing to find out that nobody was doing this type of thing in all of UK. In fact, Diagon Alley and Knockturn Alley were importing magic amplifying potions from _Denmark_.

Eileen nodded: ''Yes.''

Toby prepared to soak the leaves in sulphuric acid. ''I want you to know, Eileen, that I'm only doing this because _you_ asked me.''

''Toby, you don't have to if you don't want to.'' Eileen said. ''I'm doing it because I can and I want to give Severus a good life.'' Then, a bit more calculatingly than Tobias was used to his wife being, ''Don't you want that?''

''Of course.'' Tobias said. ''I just never expected marriage would force me to make cocaine.'' He said as he dipped the coca leaves in sulphuric acid.

Eileen loomed over her steaming cauldron. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail. They both wore long sleeves and shoes even though it was summer and scorching. It was nothing a cooling charm wouldn't fix. Tobias and Eileen both knew that safety measures in their line of work had to be respected in full.

Toby had a mask strapped to his face. He handed Eileen another and to humour her husband more than anything else, Eileen put it on. She'd already cast protective spells on them to keep the fumes from doing any harm.

Once the first batch of potions finished, Eileen took Tobias out. She dredged up money from her savings and told them that this was an investment in their future. Afterwards she dug out of their wardrobe robes so strange Tobias had almost forgotten his Eileen found completely normal. Her lips were pressed in a worried, thin line.

''What's wrong?''

''I can't wear this.'' she said, fearfully clutching the fabric and nearly tearing it with her hands. ''It's old and unfashionable.''

''Does this really matter?'' Tobias was a bit of a hippy and he didn't understand any of this.

''To Abraxas it does.'' Eileen whispered, horrified. ''He cares very much about fashion.''

Abraxas Malfoy was the only pureblood to ever write Eileen. He did this on the holidays to wish her a kind Samhain and a prosperous Yule.

''What kind of person is he?'' Tobias asked.

''Abraxas Malfoy is a very rich person.'' Eileen didn't give him any more information. It was telling of a lost, unfinished history. A husband doubted. A wife omitted.

Abraxas Malfoy was an entrepreneur, a businessman; he was someone who could see beyond blood if business demanded it. Halfbloods he didn't have problems with. Eileen stared at Tobias and delicately asked: ''Could you not be present when I call Abraxas over?''

''If it'll help you.'' Tobias said. He had narrowed his eyes and mutely stared at Eileen. She didn't budge nor did she explain further. ''You're not going to—'' he couldn't bear to even form the question.

''No!'' Eileen was horrified. Or was she simply defensive? ''Abraxas is _not_ that kind of person, Toby. He just hates muggles very, very much.'' Tobias had never been happier to hear about Eileen's contact being racist towards him than in that moment.

It was a few days after Eileen wrote Abraxas that they'd scheduled a meeting. Eileen had gone and spent all of their money on a robe. It was top of the line and had windmills on them that turned clockwise when it was worn correctly and anti-clockwise if worn backwards by accident. Tobias thought it looked ridiculous. He kept his mouth shut because Tobias thought all fashion looked ridiculous.

Eileen frantically checked and added spells to freshen up the place and make it look as little of a squalor as she could manage. Her hair was neatly tied in intricate braids; the kind she'd seen worn by purebloods in Witch Weekly. She stood by the fireplace and waited for Abraxas to arrive in what she assumed would be a flash of glorious theatricality.

There was a flash of green light from the fireplace as the fire roared. A dragon scale boot poked out first, followed by a man wearing a peacock feather patterned robe. Abraxas Malfoy was just as strange as he was before her marriage. Eileen smiled happily when she saw him.

She bowed and said: ''Welcome to my home, Lord Malfoy.''

Abraxas took one look at her: saw her robes, saw her hair, saw her demeanour, heard her accent – and broke off into a cheerful sort of laugh. He hugged her after he'd dusted his robe off from the soot. Eileen smiled when his hands wrapped around her.

''Oh, Eileen!'' Abraxas merrily exclaimed after breaking their hug. ''I haven't seen in you in such a long time. I had my doubts about your being affiliated with muggles, but I see that you haven't changed!''

After small talk was finished and Abraxas had hinted at her that he would happily talk to her family to take her and her halfblood son back (not Tobias, mind you, because he's still filth) – Eileen happily showed Abraxas her business idea.

''We make it all! The cocaine for the potion, the potion itself – everything is made right here under my perfectionist eye. I,'' Eileen said instead of 'we' because Abraxas had wrinkled his nose in apparent disgust whenever Tobias was brought up, ''just need someone to help me spread the word. Here.'' Eileen handed him a potion. ''Try it. It's a magic amplifying potion.''

Abraxas did, trusting for Eileen never to steer him wrong. He could feel his whole body tingle as if with electricity. His vision turned sharper. His hearing amplified. Everything about him was _better_. He'd heard about magic amplifying potions as they'd had a few theoretical questions in potions about them, but this was the first time he'd drunk one. Slughorn had said they were incredibly hard to get right.

Eileen had a pitch prepared that she only got halfway through before Abraxas calmed her down and said: ‘’The Twenty-Eight help each other out, Eileen. Of course I shall help you.''

She was beyond thrilled. Her practiced smile made sure the tears of relief didn't spring and embarrass her. The happiness welling inside her dimmed. Abraxas looked at a photograph of Eileen and Tobias, grimaced, and added onto his previous sentence: ''Even with our mistakes blood will out. If you ever want to stop rebelling against your parents, do give me a fire-call, won't you?''

Eileen swallowed down her rage by tittering with ladylike laughter. ''You will be the first I shall call, dearest Abraxas.'' Abraxas winked at her then, happy that the matter had been settled. They drafted a contract and signed with pure blood.

Eileen watched Abraxas go and wondered if she were a braver person would she have mentioned Riddle to his pureblood lordship and watched him flounder as a fish out of water.

Tobias came later. Eileen lovingly told him that she'd done it, then, remembering that she was out of prejudice company: ' _'We_ did it!''

Her magic burned with love for her husband and son. For them she would do anything.


	31. Intermission III

Another rope dashed up into the cloudy, deafening sky. This one was blue and black, intertwined together in a panicked concerto of magic and survival. Dudley watched as the rope struggled to find something to wrap, what with the elm tree snapped. It slid down. But then it surged back up. Through the clashing thunder and the abundant rain Dudley could hear screaming and fighting from the falling car.

He’d seen a bird falling from the sky. It was lit in a million shades of orange and red, but when it got struck by lightning it fell from the clouds and onto the wet, slippery ground. Promptly, it turned to ash.

The rope wrapped around Dudley's waist a show of unfortunate circumstance. His eyes widened and he screamed as he felt being pulled. ''Stop it! You got _me_!'' he shouted, but didn't think he could be heard. Not everyone had the same lung capacity as the woman in the car. ''Please!'' He dug his feet into the ground, but the pull was unmanageable. Tears welled in Dudley's eyes and he remembered his parents saying that magic was nothing but trouble. He couldn't help but agree. The cliff neared. Dirt rose and cascaded like a breaking wave from either side of his dragged feet. With all of his strength Dudley leaned backwards and hoped not to die. He prayed to God not to die.

Death was nearby, watching with an amused expression.

''HELP!'' Dudley shouted and just as he was about to plummet downward everything stopped. The burden which dragged him down completely stopped its descent. Dudley's tear stained cheeks flushed. He shakily leaned forward to see two people; a black haired woman waved at him to go backwards while a blond man tried to shout at him instructions.

Dudley didn't know how the car had turned feather light in an instant, but he could only go backwards. So he did. It was a spell of some kind and it wasn't any of his business. But it was! _It was as they used him as a couch pulling horse._

From the driver's window emerged a head. ''Don't listen to a word they're saying! They're criminals and need to _die_.''

Dudley was entering a bloody moral conundrum was what he was. It showed on his face.

The black haired woman shouted then: ''Don't listen to the driver; she's a bitter woman who made a mistake and suffered for it. She's terrified of herself and won't even help me save her only son. What kind of monster is that?''

The supposedly terrible mother shot back: ''The blond is a Nazi! You hate Nazis, don't you?!''

All of the movies Dudley had seen with his dad were of showing the might of the British in a war against the Nazis. So, yes: Nazis were very bad and they needed to go to jail to atone for their crimes against humanity.

''Go back, boy! The spell for lightness won't last for long and you want to live, don't you?''

''Boy, he's bluffing. He hates non magical folk and he will _happily_ let you fall.''

''Boy!'' The black haired woman, again. ''I will speak with your mother if you do not bring us up this instant!''

Dudley looked ill at the prospect.

The supposedly bad mother: ''She's lying – What's your name, sweetheart?''

''Dudley.''

''Dudley? What a terrible name!'' The black haired woman couldn't help herself. Dudley found out her name was Walburga. The blond's name was Gellert Grindelwald and he was apparently some sort of Wizard Hitler (genocide was not the answer), the mother was Eileen, and the newest addition to the crew was a man named Tobias. He looked the most tired of them all.

''Dudley, son,'' Tobias said, ‘‘What do you do?''

Walburga and Gellert Grindelwald held hands and outstretched their free ones towards Dudley to maintain their joint effort. Using magic was like training muscles; from lack of use they atrophied and were hard to get back into. One of them had died and come back to a body that was surging on adrenaline and nothing else. Another had escaped from a heavily warded prison and recently regained his eyesight. They were not in top form.

Eileen and Tobias said that they didn't use magic. Dudley, remembering his parents' teachings, gravitated more to their opinions and thought about what a good thing he would be doing if he let them all fall. Fear crawled over his skin like a tide of unease drowned everything in its path.

''I'm a student.'' Dudley answered Tobias. He gripped the rope wrapped around his waist with steel fingers. It frightened him. But the warm tone of the ordinary man (like Dudley) helped ease him into a more approachable light. ''I study, uh, law.''

''Are you a good student? What are your marks?''

Dudley looked ill. They were not good at all. In fact, he rather wished that he didn't have to face his parents with them. Law was too hard. Dudley would rather do anything except law. But medical school was too long. Nothing that was acceptable seemed to brighten Dudley's interest. He said this to Tobias who nodded sagely.

''I know.'' Tobias said, calmly. ''It must be very hard. I'm a chemist, you know. Nasty business.''

''Oh?'' Dudley nodded. People did that often when someone was speaking: opened their mouths with prompting sounds and made up perfect spots for nodding. It was called active listening without actually listening.

''Yes, yes.'' Tobias said. ''Wouldn't it be easier if you didn't have to face your parents?''

Walburga gasped in outrage. ''DON'T YOU DARE MANIPULATE THIS BOY INTO JUMPING OFF THE CLIFF! YOU'VE DONE ENOUGH, MUGGLE!'' She said the word muggle with the same distaste as his mother said FREAK. Dudley's head whirled and he had to sit down on the cliff. The rain turned to drizzle and slowly faded, but the damage was done and if Dudley didn't jump down into death's embrace he'd certainly catch some sort of cold – or die of hypothermia... it was hard to tell what fate had in store for him.

''Do you know my cousin? He's magic.'' Dudley asked. He wondered often what had come of Harry Potter.

''Most certainly!'' Walburga answered. ''The magical world is small and we all know each other.''

''In the biblical sense, too.'' Eileen said. Tobias wheezed with laughter, but then it died as he gestured both Eileen and Walburga. Eileen gave a nod and an apathetic hand gesture which signified: _Eh._

With the storm gone, Dudley could hear them much more clearly. Mostly, of course, because they were all loud people with even louder egos. It wasn't anything that Dudley wasn't used to. His ego was loud. His father's ego was loudest.

''Um, pro and con list?'' Dudley tried to implement a system that would make everyone happy. Walburga was first to boo at him and say that if he didn't want to live and if he wanted to disappoint his mother and make her sad that he should jump.

''Emotional blackmail.'' Grindelwald whistled in awe. ''Truly you are a connoisseur of this trade.''

Walburga did a hair flip and glowed at the praise: ''Thank you.''

Eileen started up the car again. It pulled Dudley forward in an abrupt tug.

'' _You suicidal **bitch** , Eileen!''_

* * *

''I hate him.''

Eileen startled at the venom. She had never heard it in such gravity from Abraxas. His pupils were dilated and his form was shaking with lividness. It amplified anger, that white powder.

''Hate whom?'' Eileen asked, folding her hands over her lap like a courteous pureblood lady that she had been conditioned to be. Tobias was never present during her dealings with Abraxas. They dealt in business and sold potions together. The galleons they raked in were wonderful. Eileen was thrilled; so thrilled that she allowed Abraxas many liberties. His one was to have a taste at the powdered ingredient. She told him that under no circumstances should he eat it. So he snorted it. It made no difference to Eileen. Fairy blood would protect him if she just never let him take more than how much she'd calculated.

She enjoyed Abraxas so high strung and fast. He animated her and told her that he disliked his wife, that he didn't know what Tom was up to and it misbalanced him, and that he feared for the lives of purebloods in a world led by a mudblood.

''I hate Leach.'' He said and jumped high from the chair he'd been sitting in. Next he paced holes into the carpet below his feet. ''That mudblood is going to make us second class citizens, Eileen.''

Eileen had read Leach's political pillars and found them amusing. She had a grudging respect for the mudblood. One time Walburga tried putting the fear of purebloods into his heart by making him believe that purebloods bathed in the blood of mudbloods. This had backfired spectacularly when Nobby Leach had tilted his head, knowingly smiled, and asked, ever so politely in a tone of someone fearless: ''So, does that mean that you bathe in mud like _pigs_?''

Eileen remembered that for a whole month it was the only thing Hogwarts talked about. The abruptly escaped and rare guffaw of Tom Riddle echoed throughout the castle walls for weeks. Nobby Leach could always pull down his mask of disciplined and careful separation. Abraxas Malfoy didn't even see Nobby Leach then. No, he had been too busy fretting over marks and crying at the prospect of returning to a war zone his mother made at home to care for a mudblood.

But _after_?

Abraxas Malfoy sniffled and rubbed at his nose furiously hard. It was running and he was asking Eileen for his wand. She never gave him his wand during these periods. It was at her home that he indulged in this manner and it was without a wand.

But his wandless magic was unparalleled. An accio was such a simple charm. Eileen worried that that look of contempt would rise and rise until he wouldn't care for the deal they'd struck.

''Why do you hate him?'' This was not the Abraxas she knew and loved and hoped would befall her when Walburga had discarded him for her own cousin. She always lapped up Walburga's scraps and Abraxas had seemed like the most delicious kind. She had him now. Eileen had Abraxas in her home, draped over her chairs, eating her food, drinking her drinks (amortentia was so simple, thought Eileen and remembered that she loved Tobias and loved their two year old son, too – but that she wished to devour Abraxas)

Eileen's home had vastly changed in the two years of her business taking off. But the last few days had changed completely because Abraxas paid more for the cocaine he'd took a craving too than the potions ever could be sold. Greed was a fickle thing. Eileen had completely given in.

Severus wobbled over to Abraxas and Abraxas picked him up with ease and swung him about, delighting in the small magical child. ''I like him. He reminds me of your father a lot.'' Abraxas jabbed without meaning to. Eileen hadn't spoken to her father in three years.

Severus called Abraxas 'Uncle Ab' and wanted to be carried by him everywhere.

''Don't indulge him so much.'' Eileen warned. ''He won't want to walk ever if you do.''

''So what?'' Abraxas laughed and it was like an enchanting sound of a waterfall right after the ice from winter had thawed. ''I'll get Tom to teach him to fly without a broom.''

Eileen held a healthy dose of fear near her heart that should have been a dose bigger. It was in form of a voice that told her, not gently at all: _You are playing with fiendfyre._

''Does Tom know?''

''About what?'' It was so difficult to see Abraxas holding her son so fondly. She didn't know how he acted towards his own son, but she tried not to think of Lucius or Antoinette or Tobias.

''This.'' Eileen gesture to the cocaine neatly arranged in lines. Then herself. Then her son. ''Everything. You keep running here and I wonder why.''

Yvette Malfoy was dead. The rumour mill spoke in hushed tones of a serpentine venom at work. Everyone looked at Riddle and waited. He was slowly making a name for himself. No, not a name: _a title._

Abraxas stilled. It was an unfathomable thing to see regularly, let alone when he was high as a hippogriff. Eileen tentatively reached for him. His eyes were the purest silver she'd ever seen. Not even Elektra Nott had eyes like these and she had lived in Faerie for a day.

''It's none of your business.'' Abraxas seethed.

Eileen felt her hand slashed with invisible knives. She recoiled and nodded, curtly. ''All right, Abraxas.''

After the high went away he apologized and told her that he liked it. ''I feel in control.''

Eileen did not think this was how control looked like. She bit her tongue and remembered the gold. Remembered her son and her husband and wondered if Severus would look exactly the same except blond where he a Malfoy?

''I should not have asked.'' Eileen said.

''You're right.'' Abraxas said and surprised her with the cutting, quiet tone. ''You should not ask me these things. I come here because I can. I do not ask you why you invite me over.''

''You could.'' Eileen's voice wobbled with fragile hope. ''You could ask me.''

Abraxas was handsome and fae and otherworldly and depended on her. Perhaps? Eileen didn't dare hope truly. _Perhaps?_

''I will never ask you that.'' Abraxas sincerely cut her down. ''I have no room for unimportant information. You have made yourself into this kind of person on your own.''

''Unimportant.'' Eileen smiled painfully. ''Yes, I do understand.''

She dosed his next batch of cocaine with a drop of amortentia, but when he asked for her stuff she chickened out and gave him a clean batch. Some lines she would not cross, no matter how much rejection stung. But she revelled in seeing him dependant on her. Sometimes she was cruel and wished to say that without her muggle husband he would not be getting his fix. But then reason reared her ugly head and told her to enjoy the things she did have.

Tobias loved her. Eileen loved him back, but she also wanted to own something. She wanted to be the pureblood her family had desperately wanted her to be. She wanted to have a pureblood lord for a husband and be a socialite and have balls and friends and laugh at people like Riddle as if they were plagues set forth on their pure world. Nobby Leach and all of the other mudbloods sullied it and Abraxas Malfoy kept mentioning the Minister almost every week that he came. Eileen refused to see past the words.

Abraxas played with Severus fondly and called him a tabula rasa worth protecting and nurturing. ''Halfbloods are perfectly decent.''

''Is that what you tell yourself while you fuck Riddle?'' Eileen's coarse tongue surprised Abraxas. He nearly dropped her two year old son.

''No.'' Then the speed came back, but so did the sadness – the sadness overcame him every time he finished the high. ''How do you live with yourself, I wonder?'' Abraxas asked. ''How do you think I feel every time I see you and know you've ruined yourself by being with a muggle.'' It was in the most Malfoy fashion to not let her get a single word in: ''Disgusted, Eileen. I feel utterly disgusted.''

''Do you?'' Eileen said. ''Do you feel _desperate_ , also?''

Whenever Abraxas got high he would stop. A twitching ball of nerves and bone and muscle and magic would stand in her lab and stare through anyone that came. His eyes were vivid and grey. Not the dark grey that they usually were. This was doing something to him, amplifying him in a way the regular magic amplifying potion didn't.

''What do you see when you take it?'' Eileen had taken Divination. She knew a seer when she saw one and it was ironic that Abraxas would be one after he had spent such a long time convincing everyone he hadn't a single seer bone in his body. Arithmancy was the trade of those that were incapable of channelling that power. It was precise and didn't garner fear. No prophecy was ever made with Arithmancy.

''I,'' Abraxas drummed his finger hard against the counter. His magic lashed out at his surroundings, but he never gave her a definite answer. Always: ''Something to look forward to.''

They would conclude their business before Tobias came back from his weekly fishing trips.

Eileen grew restless. Tobias grew paranoid. Severus grew.

Most importantly: Abraxas' hunger grew.

Eileen was tired of how little he offered her. So _she_ took more. She remembered refusing to sell him the cocaine and he'd been positively livid, but then he'd been put in a bargaining mood. Businessmen like Abraxas could be talked to. Eileen remembered grabbing hold of Abraxas' hand and making a deal with him that he would act as Severus' guardian in the magical world, that he would guide him and help him and make sure that Abraxas would protect Severus from harm. Severus needed a back to lean back on when entering the world of magic with so many pureblood snakes with venomous tongues and incantations. Abraxas had found it too small a price to pay and he'd happily accepted to take on Severus as his charge were Eileen and Tobias unwilling to deal with him. Eileen had smiled proudly at herself and her good deed for her son. Malfoy influence was the next best thing after the influence of Walburga Black.

Severus was six and really liked Abraxas. Abraxas was not six and wanted nothing more than to forget that he had a body that his existence forced him to be in, with all of the Malfoy duties and fatherly restrictions. He rubbed his hands and demanded that Eileen gave him more. That he needed more. That he needed wanted craved desired wanted needed pleaded begged for more.

It was in 1966 after the second election of Minister Nobby Leach that Abraxas prostrated himself on his knees and begged Eileen. His hair was dishevelled and his hands were bonier than they tended to be. The drug, she'd asked Tobias, did it make you lose your appetite? He thought these were all hypothetical questions (as hypothetical as Tom Riddle's questions to Slughorn tended to be (Abraxas' gave away so much information in so little time so often)). Apparently it did. So Abraxas ate his own magic and begged.

''What does Tom say about this?'' Did Riddle even care? Eileen wouldn't were she in his position. She would be enjoying the splendour of living in Malfoy Manor and being lavished in gifts by an open-minded lord.

''Tom?'' Abraxas raked his brain carefully for memories of Tom and him interacting last. His expression was blank and he waved Eileen's question away fast. ''I need the blasted cocaine, Eileen. Won't you give it?''

''What do you see?'' Eileen asked curiously. It burned and burned and burned her. But as a warning she did not heed.

''It isn't any of your business.'' Abraxas snapped. He thought himself clairvoyant. Clairvoyant people were the hardest to convince to stop. Eileen drowned in a sea of regrets she had made herself jump in.

''What about if you try and put a formula to your vision?'' To combine Divination and Arithmancy was a fool's task.

Divination was not fact.

Arithmancy was.

This was where they differed.

Abraxas Malfoy had never taken Divination and relied on Eileen's help to try and bring those two branches together, thinking that if they succeeded that they would be able to see the future in a precise and true manner.

Eileen fretted.

Tobias and Severus returned after their trip and saw Eileen with a man too fast for anyone's liking. She was clasping her hands together to stop them from shaking. Tobias saw Abraxas, and saw his wife's fearful expression. ' _'Leave_ ,'' she mouthed. She begged, worried for the safety of her husband.

Abraxas turned from his research and observed the muggle. Like a fairy did its prey.

Eileen clutched Abraxas' wand and thought that it was a decorative piece for him. That he rarely needed one, especially with the boost of the cocaine.

''Is this the _pet_?'' Abraxas finally asked, after a dangerous silence passed. Eileen held her breath. Tobias had a tight hold on Severus' shoulder, knowing how to get a feel of a room.

''Yes.'' Eileen said. Tobias' expression flickered with hurt. ''That's him. He's useful, isn't he? At least when I'm tired he minds the child.''

Abraxas laughed. He joyfully clapped and noticed that his hands were smeared with ink. Next he willed it away with a whisper and no wand movement. Eileen praised his skill. He bowed to her and winked. Eileen knew that pureblood men were the fragile sort, but she didn't quite know they were so easily threatened by muggles.

Tobias would not be swayed. However much Abraxas was threatened by seeing a muggle treated as kindly as a wizard, Tobias was overcome with a jealous stab that forced him to engage in a passive aggressive manner towards Abraxas. Eileen wished that they hadn't met yet. She wished for a way to turn back time and start over.

In the most muggle fashion – in the most Tobias fashion, the chemist grabbed hold of Abraxas' hand in a handshake and ground out his name: ''Tobias Snape, it's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Malfoy.''

Abraxas looked ill. He pulled back his hand as if it had been scalded with boiling water. Eileen lost interest the more she saw him interacting with her husband. It was good to dream, but in the end she could never be like that again.

'' _Lord_ Malfoy.'' He squeaked.

Eileen saw a faded smile on Toby's face. She glared at him to tone it down. He didn't. Of course he didn't. He had finally cornered the man his wife saw weekly.

Severus rushed to hug Abraxas, but Eileen stopped him. She scooped him up in her hands and told him that he could go to bed. Then she set him down and because she'd raised an obedient child didn't have to worry. Severus would do as told. She could not leave Toby and Abraxas alone.

''You're very well behaved for a muggle.'' Abraxas said. Tobias' eyes flashed indignantly, but he was spelled to silence by Eileen's quick and silent wandwork, her cedar want she never went anywhere without. To Eileen, Abraxas said: ''Good job in training him.'' The worst part was that he meant it as a compliment.

''I,'' Eileen's voice cracked. She did not know how to reply to that.

Abraxas was good at reading the room. Just as Tobias. He asked where his willow wand was. Eileen hid it behind her back while maintaining a firm grip on her wand in her other hand.

''You have nothing to worry about. We all have our distractions.'' Abraxas placated her. He would not harm Tobias.

''Is Riddle _yours_?''

Abraxas shrugged. He was coming down from the speed and his face wasn't as tensely pulled as before. It was relaxing into sadness and lethargy. He rubbed his face with his shaky hands. ''Arithmancy is the process. Divination is the end. No matter how much I work, Eileen, I can't seem to connect the two. There's no process for the end I see.''

''Oh.'' Eileen said, wary. ''Then isn't the end wrong?'' It had to be if Abraxas Malfoy couldn't find a way to get to the end he saw in his drugged state.

''No.'' Abraxas said hoarsely. He clung to the possibility. ''That is the _one_ thing that isn't wrong.'' The air around them swirled malignly with magic. Tobias could feel it building and concentrating from Abraxas. It was like a wave of desperation and longing.

''What do you see?'' Eileen whispered. She had the clarity of mind to stand in front of her husband to shield him.

''I see myself.'' Abraxas finally relinquished his hold on the information he held so tightly and firmly close to his chest. Each word that came out Eileen had spent years prying out like a dentist did an unruly child's tooth. ''I see _Tom_. We're happy. There's no Antoinette, there isn't any Malfoy legacy to uphold and hold over my head, and there isn't a child to hold me back. I am not trapped, Eileen. That's what I see.'' Then. ''Would you have made me feel trapped?''

Eileen blinked fast. She didn't avert her gaze, but she would not cry. ''I can't know that, Abraxas.''

''It's too late for that now anyway.'' Abraxas said. He passed by the Snape family and on his way out – through the fireplace, he said: ''If I have to see this _thing_ again, Eileen, I'll take my business elsewhere.'' In green flames he disappeared.

Eileen knew he'd be back. She still had his wand. Forgetful creature that he was, Abraxas would return and try to get back in her good books.

Tobias told Eileen to cut Abraxas off. ''Tell someone!'' Eileen finally broke down crying. ''Tell his wife, tell anyone! Someone else needs to know about this. We… _I_ can't help you.'' Tobias implied that he thought Abraxas may hurt Eileen.

''He wouldn't. Abraxas is… he isn't violent. He's just sad, Toby.''

''Sad? That's sad to you?'' Tobias raged with good right. ''He looked ready to kill.''

''Kill?'' It was Eileen's laugh that startled her more than the words themselves. ''Abraxas would never kill. He's _scared_ of using the unforigivables.''

''Loads of different ways of killing a person.'' Tobias said. Eileen knew that was true. A frightening ball lodged in her throat and made swallowing her deeds hard.

In 1968 everything changed.

Eileen saw that Abraxas came often with a book he said he had taken from Walburga Black's library. ''Tom can't go in there. It's warded against him.''

''No one can go through Black Family wards.'' Eileen recited. Severus was at school and Tobias was going to take him to a rugby game afterwards.

''What's the book called?''

It was written in Old English, but Abraxas was using translating spells freely as he flipped through it. ''Spells you won't believe are legal.''

Eileen thought that sounded promising in a chaotic sort of way. She waited for him to ask about the cocaine, but this time he didn't ask right away. It was a strange day. Their routine was already being dismantled and turned over.

''That's a fun way of naming a book.''

Abraxas knew the Snape residence home like the back of his hand. He'd been coming punctually every week for years and without taking his gaze from the book in question he manoeuvred himself to an arm chair and said: ''Do you have felix felicis?''

''Yes.'' Eileen did. She made sure a drop of it was always in her food before dealing with Abraxas. It made her feel safe. Tobias was instructed to drop a drop on his tongue before heading back home.

This delighted him. His magic was abuzz with beautiful cracks and brightness. ''Good. Could I have some?''

Eileen didn't dare ask why. ''It'll cost you.''

Abraxas laughed. ''You have become such a businesswoman, Eileen. Truly you astound me.'' Flattering her was his tactic of throwing her off tact. It didn't work anymore. She could see the withdrawal symptoms in his twitches and the way his gaze fluttered between anger and hunger.

Once the exchange was finished and he had the felix felicis in his hold, Abraxas looked at it with reverence. ''You are the best potioneer in our world right now, you know.''

''Thank you.'' Eileen was not one to think herself beneath true praise. It was simply acknowledging fact.

''Leach is,'' Abraxas always somehow came back to Leach and his politics. Eileen didn't know where the fascination came from. Who was the one filling his head with this? Did he honestly believe his own words? ''Oh, Eileen! He's positively insane. Did you hear what he said in his last speech?''

Eileen didn't. She hadn't even voted for him in 1962 or 1966. She'd simply read his political statements while he ran that hilarious campaign. ''What did he say?''

''He's giving jobs to Squibs! Jobs that could be easily going to purebloods and he's just taking them away!''

Eileen couldn't help but snort. Abraxas fixed her with a spearing gaze. ''What?''

''Do you _want_ a job?''

''No – but that's beside the point, Eileen.''

''Purebloods are independently wealthy, Abraxas. Leach knows, trust me. He isn't doing anything that could put purebloods in harm's way. Without the pureblood vote he's nothing.''

Abraxas fumed. He called Eileen a traitor not only to blood, but to her family's values. ''You're defending him!''

''I am not.'' She really wasn't. ''I'm stating fact.''

''What about his attempts to bring more mudbloods and halfbloods into the Ministry? There are enough of them!''

''May I remind you that Riddle is a halfblood thought to be a mudblood.'' Abraxas scoffed and said that Riddle didn't care for the Ministry. Eileen continued: ''Leach is a phenomenon that fought tooth and nail to get to the position he is at. Purebloods hold monopoly over the Wizengamot. Let the menial jobs get taken over. This is still a pure world.''

Abraxas clutched the book with steel hands. His finger was caught between pages as a bookmark and Eileen's curiosity burned. She could taste fire on her tongue. She could taste what being flayed would feel like.

''That's how they get you!'' Abraxas shouted. ''That's how they get you – with the promises of still being on top, but they're all slowly getting together to fight against the one common enemy. I will not be destroyed by halfbreeds and mudbloods and halfbloods!'' Then, the most revolting thought: ''And the squibs! The squibs can vote, Eileen!''

''Squibs could vote for a long time before Leach, but they just never had anyone to vote _for_.''

Abraxas scowled, but he pocketed the felix felicis vial for later use. ''That's not the worst of it.'' His voice had softened and Eileen, in turn, sharpened her hearing.

''What is?''

''He wants to take _Samhain_ from me.'' Abraxas slapped a hand to his chest and cried out. Eileen remembered the funeral of Hyperion Malfoy. Her lips pressed into a thin line. Abraxas had never been the same after his father’s death.

Nobby Leach pushed for integration of muggle holidays with pagan ones. It was his most controversial idea yet. **_Nobby Leach and his ideas_** , as Abraxas sometimes quoted Walburga’s hateful spiel.

Eileen raised a brow. Samhain was _sacred_. Even she still celebrated it with her family. But she also sent Severus to go trick or treating because he was a child and children should never have a fascination with the dead. There could be a balance.

Abraxas asked for the cocaine he came here for and Eileen didn't get a chance to explain that Nobby Leach didn’t deserve being afraid of. That everything would be fine. She opened her mouth, but Abraxas interrupted her: ''What's next? He's already pushing for muggle studies to be enhanced and changed. What's next? Is he going to make us believe in his _god_?'' Nobby Leach was as interested in forcing his religious belief on others as Walburga Black was interested in hosting Riddle over for tea in her lovely Black home.

''I hardly believe-''

''I've read up on it, Eileen! Mudbloods made this spell – oh it's disgusting mon Merlin! It was mad by some Christians to convert pagans – well I'll show him! This is just a fancier and slower way of doing it. I get Leach's agenda! He won't win, I can tell you this much!''

Abraxas drowned in his own visions and rubbed at his nose – Eileen really did wonder if he could even smell after using for such a long time. Not that there weren't spells to give him back his sense of smell, they just needed to be applied monthly.

''Oh that really packs a punch.'' His voice raised an octave and he did sound like a peacock. Eileen asked him after his birds and he was momentarily distracted. A loving smile coated his lips and he told her all about his peafowls and what they were up to.

He threw the book on the armchair and paced around her living room, finding himself incapable of sitting down. His magic buzzed and tore the wallpaper off from her walls. Eileen fixed this accidental magic (was it accidental, really?) with a wave of her wand. She was about to ask Abraxas for his wand when her eyes caught sight of the bookmarked page.

The Theophilius Hex of Enlightenment.

Eileen bent forward and squinted as she tried to read the text. Some men Cyril and Methodius made it in order to spread Christianity faster on magical kind. They were muggleborn wizards themselves.

Abraxas tore the book away from Eileen's sight and shoved it deep in his extended pocket. He grasped his willow wand for good measure and disapparated without a word.

Eileen felt like an accomplice in something terrible.

Her suspicions only worsened as time went on. Abraxas stopped coming. Tobias and Eileen were terrified.

It was Toby that voiced his thought: ''Do you think he's… dead?''

''He didn't take much-''

''He's been taking it for years.''

''I never let him take enough to pose a threat on his life. Fairy blood _filters_.''

''But-''

It was raining outside. They huddled together and waited for the other shoe to drop. Eileen could feel the chill oozing off of the walls in their home. They never lit the fireplace. Eileen never wrote any letters to Malfoy Manor. She never had. If Abraxas Malfoy had died then … then neither Snape wanted to think what would happen when they tracked his overdose to them.

Severus slept soundly.

Thunder blasted in a maddening screech. Lightning shot straight in their front yard and Eileen pushed Tobias down to the floor with her on top of him. She clutched her wand close to her chest. The lights in their home were turned off, but the spell of protection she cast would buy them invisibility for a few moments.

A presence had come for them. Tobias was the one bold enough to ask: ''Eileen, who is it?''

Eileen glanced up from their hiding spot to see a man peering through the window. He was squinting and had rainfall roll off of his black robe. In his hand was a white wand and in his eyes, which traced the room for Eileen or Tobias, was blood and _soullessness_.

''Run.'' Eileen whispered. ''Get Severus and run, Toby.''

''I'm not leaving you.''

''Don't then, and watch him kill our _son_.''

'' _Who is **that** , Eileen?''_

The man moved from the window and knocked on their front door. Thunder timed with his knocks. The whole house shook from the power emanating from the wrathful being.

Raising her hand to clasp around the door knob was the hardest thing Eileen had ever done. _For my family_ , she thought.

* * *

Tobias had had enough, it seemed. When Eileen started up the car again his hand shot for the glove compartment and opened it in a swift, but finally decisive moment. He had tired of being in the front seat and not saying anything to the driver. A marriage was like driving a car with a map. One drove and the other helped give directions because both of them were headed to the same destination.

It was a slender and beautiful cedar wand that his wife had. He could feel home when he touched it. It welcomed him lovingly.

Walburga's hand shot for it. Tobias let her grab it. Eileen was screaming. Grindelwald was keeping the feather-light spell still, which was commendable as these were trying circumstances.

That boy, Dudley, was probably going to need therapy. Not that Tobias himself thought he was any better. He was just tired of letting wizards control his life.

Walburga tried to pry the wand from Tobias' hand, but his vice grip was relentless. ''You will save our son from this prison and you will tell him to come visit.'' They did not see Severus. Hadn't since his graduation. ''We need to talk to that boy.''

''You had time to talk to him, yet you never reached out.'' Walburga pressed salted hands to unhealed wounds.

''I couldn't!'' Eileen snapped, finally. ''I promised _him_ that I would never write a letter and post it via owl, that I would never reach out to the magical world, that I would never make a single potion in my life, that I would never ever speak with Abraxas Malfoy, and that were I to use magic and try to integrate myself back to the magical world he would come back! This time, he promised me, he would kill my son and make me watch. Tobias and I barely survived with our lives. Severus hating us for hating magic was a small price to pay for his safety.''

''You have no idea what he did to us.'' Tobias was not a man to be trifled with anymore. He locked eyes with Walburga and held. ''You have no bloody clue how long it took us to rebuild. You coming here and talking to us breaches that promise. This is why we aren't forthcoming. Not that we would be even if we could be – you're not worth our hospitality either way.''

''Brave words coming from a muggle.''

''Don't make me break your nose again, wizard. I'm the one holding the key to our salvation.''

Walburga broke eye contact first and Tobias felt mighty good about himself.

The black sizzled off and it was only blue that wrapped around Dudley's waist. The car turned heavier by the passing minute. Dudley's strained cries alerted them that they did not have much time. Not that the two mages sitting in the back cared. Dudley was nothing more to them than a thing, a tool.

''Eileen Snape,'' Walburga addressed Eileen by her favoured name, ''were Tom Riddle still seeking to enact further vengeance on _you_ , he would have come for you ages ago. Just by taking to me and asking about the magical world (even if it is to gain information about your son) it should have alerted him.'' Gently she let go of the cedar wand and took hold of Eileen's hand in hers. ''Doesn't that strike you as odd?''

''He's biding his time.''

''He's cut himself off from every bond he has created in 1981 when Harry Potter did him in.'' Walburga explained the dead ended connection to his Death Eaters. It would stand as fact that the less intimate deals would have fallen away much more quickly and certainly. ''You're free, Eileen. He couldn't care less about anyone from this forsaken island.''

Eileen's eyes widened with realisation. There was merit in Walburga's words.

''Except your son, of course. He was his most favoured Death Eater and then he betrayed him. Similarly how you betrayed your family by becoming a blood traitor and then betrayed Abraxas by not telling anyone he was ruining himself.''

''Blood Obeys.'' Eileen recited the Prince words. Like mother like son. What she wouldn't give to see her son just one more time.

She allowed Walburga to take her wand and use it to disapparate them all from the wreckage.

Grindelwald alerted the muggle boy first by unwrapping his magic from him. Dudley tumbled backwards and held his head in his hands when he saw the car plummet with what he thought was full of people.

Said people materialized behind him with a sudden crack.

''Next stop, Cousin George.'' Walburga was back at it. She handed him the cedar wand. ''We go to Ollivander's to get me a new wand!''

''Then Azkaban?''

''And after it I can help you kill Riddle, if you like.''

''No, listen. While I do appreciate the help you think you are proffering, you are still giving me an even bigger headache by being in my presence. I am a man of my word and after Azkaban we shall go our separate ways.''

''Fair enough.'' Walburga said.

Dudley was staring at them. ''What the fuck even are _you_ people, oi?''

''We're better than you. Thank you for the help.'' Walburga tore the cedar wand from Grindelwald's hand and cast a spell on Dudley. ''Here's some good fortune.''

With that said they disapparated away.

Dudley rose to shaky feet and wobbled over to his car. He put the seatbelt on and drove off slowly.

The rain had stopped. A shy glimpse of the sun peeked from the clouds. From the bottom of the cliff a caw could be heard as the sun crossed over the ash.

A phoenix rose into the sky and as it flew overhead the Snapes it shed a phoenix feather. Eileen caught it. It was good luck to catch a phoenix feather, especially right after its rebirth.


	32. Intermission IV

All pureblood families had words used as mottos. Ever since the Ministry and the Statute of Secrecy's founding they had things to do with blood. No muggle intermingling. No muddy blood. No halfbreed blood. Only _pure_ blood.

Walburga Black knew her words: _Toujours pur._ Always pure.

Out of respect she knew the words from the other families. Like the Prince words: _Blood Obeys._ Or the words of the Lestrange: _Pure Purge_. Or the words of the Malfoys: _Sanctimonia Vincet Semper_. Purity Will Always Conquer. Or the Lovegoods: _The Folk Protect Their Blood._ Or the Weasleys because even the blood traitors are purebloods: _A Drop of Blood is followed by a Wave_.

But then they also had words from before the Ministry. From before the Statute of Secrecy when it was more about magic than it was about relations.

 _Mind magic is Black magic._ It was whispered in tight and small circles of those who knew and had this knowledge passed down. There was a madness to every Black, a relentless thirst, but it made their minds secure and unreachable. Walburga recited the mottos of other families and she found that there was only one family that did _not_ change their motto after the Ministry had been founded and they'd exited the dark age of magic and witch hunts.

The words of the Nott family were an omen of ill will for anyone they were said to. They were a promise and the truth: _In Night We Win._

Walburga hoped that Thoros Nott would take from those words guidance when drenched in the night of Dementors. She held her new wand she'd gotten from Ollivander’s and looked to Grindelwald one last time before they disapparated from the shop and into the fold of misery.

* * *

The darkness was imminent and quiet. Lulling strokes of an enchanted oar through water filled the air. No one spoke when the tall, onyx spire of Azkaban prison rose into view. It wasn't black marble or stone that adorned the outer walls of Azkaban. No, that was not why it was black at all. Dementors fluttered around the spire nonchalantly. They craned their head towards the boat to see food.

Only select few could come to the shores and greet the food. They looked at the arrivals and hissed in their fairy tongue. The aurors present had red hair and a firm grip on their wands. Their tongues knotted and all they could do was push the prisoners out of the boat and through the Dementors clicking and gliding after them.

Azkaban walls oozed with ice. The crashing of the waves intensified when one got inside. On the outer side there were no waves; only stillness and a threat that something lurked underneath the surface. The waves were there to quell any sign of rebellion from the exhausted prisoners who could never hope to battle against high tides.

The aurors looked at each other and noted how there were fewer and fewer human guards in Azkaban as the years passed. Dementors were growing more demanding and less unpredictable. This was a good combination because it gave human guards leeway to leave an island full of suffering souls to Dementors without worry of finding them kissed the next morning. Though if a small few were kissed – no one minded.

Prisoners dragged themselves. Their magic had been suppressed by magical spells that would wear off right after their procession through Azkaban was finished. Eyes full of uncertainty danced off of every corner, keeping track of where they moved and how. They tried to memorize a way out, but there would be no life left in them to do anything once they were welcomed properly into the fold of Azkaban's cells.

Aurors commanded the prisoners to strip from their free-man attire. It was January. It was freezing. The rags offered to them had no warming charm cast. At wand point they acceded to strip away with their free identities and take these on.

There were no lights lit in Azkaban. It was night when they were taken in. How they put their clothes on was a mystery to be revealed the following morning. The youngest prisoner had put his on backwards. The oldest had gotten one that was drenched with ice and thought of his son and how he had disappointed him. A dementor reached for him, but at the last moment stopped. They were pacing themselves. Food was with them. Food would not leave.

Next they were ushered into a pathway where a Dementor stood at a camera. This Dementor looked as gleeful as a starving Dementor could. The middle aged prisoner had the most beautiful features of the three and was therefore accosted by the Dementor to be photographed for many more snapshots than was necessary. Once this was finished they were shoved into a cell and locked up.

The suppressant on their magic remained. One of them asked when it would be lifted. The aurors said that it was the Dementors that lifted it. Then they fled and hoped to see them kissed, but would be content with having them in prison for the rest of their long wizard lives.

The Dementors came finally, in the dead of night. They reached through the cell bars and grabbed hold of them, added sickeningly brutal pressure to their skulls, and hissed in beautiful fairy tongue. Each time a clawed hand grasped human flesh the human would break that avowed silence of Azkaban. It only goaded them further on.

The prisoners could feel as the bonds on their magic fell like heavy shackles to the ground, but the lethargy that overcame them at the Dementor's touch was twice as worse. Severus Snape collapsed first, then Lucius, and as Thoros tried to fight to remain standing and aware of his surroundings he could see a flicker of difference between the blindness of the great nights in Azkaban, the dirt black walls of the structure, and the flutter of Dementor garment.

It made no difference when he fell to their thralls like Lucius and Severus. Their bones weighed, their emotions turned ten times heavier on their chest and mind, and all they wanted to do was rest and cry out for help. Loud hisses rose like alarms, signifying the breaking in of the Azkaban prisoners. Dementors fed that night copiously.

* * *

Grindelwald and Walburga apparated to the outskirts of Azkaban. The ocean nearby was still, but the eyes staring from the great depths were predatory. Walburga recognized them instantly as siren eyes. Her niece, Narcissa, had a great fondness for them and as a child wanted to lure men to their deaths. Luckily she grew out of this phase, but she did write a couple of papers on their migration behaviour and was treated as an expert on the topic. Not that many people knew this, because a socialite didn’t broadcast such hidden depths.

''Do you know what Azkaban is?'' Walburga inquired of her foreign compatriot. He said that it was a prison, but the tightness in his voice was unmistakable.

''It's a peace treaty with Dementors.'' Walburga explained. ''Before this prison they attacked our villages and stole our children.''

''Children are not full of misery.''

''No, but with one night spent away from home they can easily be turned into cesspools of anguish.'' Walburga said. She noted no human guards and grinned. ''There's a perk in having no human guards around.''

''Really?'' Grindelwald saw no perks. His prison only had human guards and he did not know how humane that was until seeing what the British had.

Walburga nodded. She took out a twisty, bendy wand of apple wood and dragon heartstring core. Grindelwald mirrored her with Eileen's cedar wand. ''There's a beauty in knowing I won't be spilling any magical blood.'' Then before they entered into the spiralling structure she shouted, for everyone to hear: **_''EXPECTO PATRONUM!''_**

A flash of iridescent light shot from her wand and brought clarity. Dementors fled from it and she could tell stone and night and misery-feeders apart. The light shifted into a mongoose and Walburga gasped when she saw her patronus formed after such a long time. It was like greeting an old friend. One that skipped off merrily through the hordes of Dementors avoiding it like Walburga and her friends had avoided associating with Riddle. Watching the Dementors flee made Walburga realise something deeply embarrassing: purebloods feared muggleborns much more than they were disgusted by their so-called weak blood. They feared the change they would bring and thus it was easier to hate them out of their circles than to allow them any power.

Walburga walked through Azkaban and at the angry hisses of Dementors, she smiled. This felt real. This felt good. She loved power and she loved flaunting it. ''I spent a year in a swamp with you creatures.'' She allowed herself to remember. ''A few hours with help doesn't seem like a problem at all.''

Just as she mentioned help, Grindelwald's patronus surged past the mongoose, its wings spread and proud. The mongoose refused to be swayed by the drama of the phoenix, so it remained nearby Walburga and acted as her shield.

''I can't believe professor Dumbledore has the snottiest dark lord _whipped_.''

Grindelwald looked down at Walburga only in the literal sense; otherwise his expression was of sheer annoyance. They treaded into the folds of Azkaban carefully.

* * *

After a few days of imprisonment Thoros got into a routine. He saw the Dementors when they came in the dead of night to feast upon them through the cell bars. A moment’s warning was enough to surge back against the freezing wall of their cell and wait the storm out. Severus spoke to keep them awake through the night. Eye rings shone ungratefully on each Death Eater.

''I didn't even _want_ to join you people. It just seemed like the logical choice at the time. I wasn't prejudiced against muggleborns. I loved a muggleborn.'' Severus remembered Lily and the Dementors thought: Oh this one is so _ripe_.

But then Lucius' crying alerted them to someone even more miserable. He cried for his dead father, cried for his wife who was trying her hardest to free him, cried for his missing son who he hoped was all right wherever he was, and as icing on top he said that he was: ''This is all happening to me because,'' a wail for effect, ''I'm a child of divorce!'' Lucius buried his head in his hands and the Dementors thought: Oh, no – no! _This_ one!

Only Thoros disallowed his feelings from surfacing to the open truly. He was of a different age where war razed through their childhood and adulthood and promised to devour their retirement. Thoros had no time to waste on this. He had disappointed his son and that was a crime he could not rectify while locked up in Azkaban. Moody's wand-happy demeanour had stilled his tongue outside, but here – now – Thoros could _plot_.

A Dementor's claw was forestalled from clawing at the Death Eaters. The hood hid the contemptuous glare they all had for Thoros, who could tell them apart from the very essence of Azkaban. He pulled Severus and Lucius out of their paths and watched like a hawk being hunted.

''Narcissa—'' Lucius blubbered on, hoping that his wife would come to his aid. ''She'll organize my safe return to society. She cares for me very much and to find a lover to take care of her at her age seems like too much work!''

Severus' spent his time staring upward and not eating gruel because of exhaustion. _''Lily, I'm sorry.''_

Thoros was surrounded by hopelessness, but he refused to yield to it. He owed it to Theodore to return and explain to him properly what was happening. Abraxas would return them all – Thoros heard his own tears choke his throat when he remembered that Abraxas was dead in St. Mungo's.

It was up to them to make their escape. They would be crafters of their own destiny and they would be the heroes of their own unfortunate tales and –

There was a light. It was flashing. The Dementors were screeching. There was another light.

Thoros' plan deflated like a sad balloon. Though, looking on the bright patronus lit side he saw Dementors cowering from a source of power emanating from down the dusty corridor. The eldest Death Eater didn't recognize the source of this power until he could see the shape of the patronus. It was a **_mongoose_**. A chill slammed into him harshly. He crawled backwards from the bars and wished to melt into the cold wall chilling his back.

Lucius and Severus didn't know truly what that meant. They were cheering. Their shouts of exaltation were drowned by the Dementors' shocked hissing. Another patronus flew through them, scattering them like – like – like that _one time_ when Walburga cast a snake multiplying spell at a gaggle of _children_ who were playing too loudly at one of her parties during the sixties. Those kids had run so far and so fast. There was a reason why Thoros had bided his time in getting a child of his own. He was waiting until Walburga Black's children were too old to be put together with his child on play dates.

From out of the light soaked corridor emerged a spectre garbed in black. Half of her face was marred with bone and muscle, the other half was as it had been always: not particularly pretty to look at, but would be complimented for the sake of social standing.

Lucius addressed the spectres first by asking: ''Who is that?'' It was such a fun thing to be in denial.

Thoros was waiting for the other shoe to drop. But the Phoenix patronus made absolutely no sense. It didn't until he saw Gellert Grindelwald following Walburga's lead and doing as she commanded him. _Only_ Walburga Black could make Gellert bloody Grindelwald heed her commands.

''I wanted to escape, but not like this.'' Thoros' voice was strained with the disappointment of having his own rescue stolen from him, mostly because he would never hear the end of it from this resurrected woman. Walburga's patronus magnified with light and the Dementors were falling over trying to get away. But the true attack was in the voice, that deafening and cruel laughter that promised nothing except assured cruelty.

''A _HA_! LOOK AT THOSE SORRY EXCUSES HIDING BEHIND THAT BLASTED PLEATHER SCOUNDREL! IF IT ISN'T ABRAXAS' SPAWN AND EILEEN'S BOY, REMEMBER ME?'' Walburga called out to them.

Severus heard his mother's name and thought that thought that every child had from time to time: Well, apparently I've got parents, don't I? Should I write them? But I didn't for so long? But being in Azkaban has changed me and I am sad and I want my mother to coddle me?

Lucius heard his father's name and thought that thought that most children had about their relatives: My father's got issues and while I do love him and mourn him and it's hard to hear his name I shan't put aside that he acted badly towards me like no real father ought to.

Thoros saw Walburga Black and whispered: ''Dying by making out with a Dementor doesn't seem like that big of a deal.'' But then a voice in his head told him that he had a son and he heaved himself to his feet. Severus and Lucius took his lead. He adjusted his Azkaban rag and asked the Black apparition. ''Walburga, is that you?''

''Who else would it be?'' Walburga led her patronus to the cell and the mongoose ate the lock away on the cell door. Thoros didn't know that patroni could do that. Patronuses?

''Is Abraxas alive?'' Thoros asked. Very calmly for a man in his situation. Lucius and Severus stood several inches behind him, just in case.

''I duelled Death and won!'' Walburga lauded herself which meant that it was a tall tale. Thoros knew how much Walburga liked to speak in riddles and confound others with facts that were not facts at all, but simply misinformation.

''Good on you.'' Thoros said and opened the cell door. They stepped out like a Spartan battle formation: pieced together and wary of attacks from all sides. ''What of Abraxas?'' Lucius didn't dare hope, but the gaze he had aimed towards Walburga told Thoros everything. He hoped his father back from the dead.

''You!'' Walburga shouted at Severus and the walls of Azkaban shook from her rage. ''Visit your mother! She's worried sick about you and your father's all right for a muggle. He punched Grindelwald in the face.''

Grindelwald was fighting against Dementors out back and saying something about really needing to get going because the Dementors could easily call human guards and then they'd be royally screwed. Walburga said something about being unafraid of humans and that she'd welcome a challenge. Then she fired off a second patronus at the Dementors and _cackled_.

Severus could be heard asking: ''Thoros, is that really Walburga Black? I don't remember her being this…'' Walburga was wrecking destruction on Azkaban and the Dementors who were trying to scramble for the lower levels, but the first patronus of Walburga disallowed them.

''She resurrected herself, Severus. Walburga will never let us forget this.'' Thoros slowly and carefully walked over the cool tiles of Azkaban. He didn't feel his bare feet on the ground. The chill of Azkaban buried in their bones and would remind them forever of this.

One of the Dementors got the better of Grindelwald and his patronus sizzled off, frightened into oblivion. This let Walburga open for an attack on her person. Her patroni diminished and a scream tore into a silent weep when one Dementor, half burned by the light of unkind happiness, squeezed Walburga's head and lifted her off of the ground.

Lucius dutifully turned around and tried to go back in the cell before a Dementor thought of doing similarly to him. Severus had to keep him from doing so.

They returned to the darkness. They returned to the Night.

''NOTT!'' Walburga's muffled scream flipped something on.

When Thoros Nott heard his surname being shouted he thought a thought rarely thought. _In Night We Win._

The Dementors moved and he could tell their billows and hear their hisses. He was of no fairy blood, but this was something passed down by Notts for centuries. A certain level of awareness that most did not possess. It seemed like a small thing, how Thoros could tell apart darkness from night, but Azkaban was exaggerated. It was simply dark. It was not an abyss. It was misery and it was terror, this all stood, but it was also occupied by the living. Where there was living there was salvation.

Thoros _saw_. He hooked an arm around Lucius' and he in turn dragged Severus. While the Dementors were seizing the opportunity to teach the intruders a lesson they moved to the spot where they'd relinquished their wands. It was unguarded. Apparently all had fled with the addition of the patroni. Lucius was the one who opened the door, his fairy blood awakening and his silver eyes glowing. His movements were sloppy, but hopeful.

''Accio.'' Lucius whispered and out from the destroyed room (there was a hole from which two people could easily jump down) flew into his hand an elm wand. He delightfully chortled and whispered the only spell on his mind: ''Lumos.''

Light birthed into the room. Thoros closed his eyes and gradually opened them to get adjusted to the light. Severus was going through the confiscated wands and found his. He cast warming charms on them and it was easier to _exist_.

Thoros outstretched his hand wearily, thought of his son, and summoned his wand.

''We should go.'' Lucius said. ''I need to go and see my father. I need to- if Lady Black's returned then perhaps so has he – Cissa. Draco. I can't stay here when I have a chance of surviving.'' He looked to Thoros and Severus. ''Come on, Severus.''

Severus was the only one of them that could actually fly. He looked down through the hole and – the author wouldn't lie – it really was a steep fall. ''I've never flown from such a demanding height.''

The mystery of how the Dark Lord taught his most trusted follower to fly remained a mystery. One that Severus gladly bemoaned when anxious. ''That bastard threw me down a cliff and told me to commandeer my magic.''

''Do you need someone to throw you this time?'' Lucius asked. He was already volunteering gladly for the task.

Severus snorted and just as he was about to say that no, he didn't – Lucius was tackling them both downward.

Were Thoros religious at all he would have made the sign of the cross and said his prayers. He was not religious at all, therefore he turned towards Walburga and went to save her since he didn't know how to fly and hadn't attached himself to anyone that knew how to fly.

His best bet would be saving Walburga.

Grindelwald he'd let rot. If he pretended Grindelwald was Tom Riddle, Thoros felt utterly _delighted_.

Walburga Black was lying on the ground. Her happiness and strength leeched off of the looming Dementors. Her vision blurred and her hands were limply hanging by her side. Grindelwald was attempting to run away and cursing heavily in Hungarian. Thoros didn't know that language – because honestly nobody learned Hungarian for fun – so he didn't know what Grindelwald was saying, but the trickle of Dementors he was leading away from Walburga was helping immensely.

''Excuse me.'' Thoros said. ''Won't you kindly remove yourselves from the presence of Walburga Black? The scion of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.'' Walburga Black wheezed out heiress as correction. Thoros amended it quickly: ''Heiress, quite right.''

The Dementors looked at him like he was an idiot for not running. Then they deliberated amongst each other and came to the conclusion that lover boy Nott was probably feeling up for a darling good old time with a Dementor. Seven minutes in Azkaban and all that.

One adjusted its cowl and sauntered over to Nott. Thoros whispered: ''Walburga, if you're ready to join us back with a patronus I'd be thrilled.'' The Dementors were leaving Walburga alone in anticipation for a feast Thoros was offering them on a silver platter. Gods, as if he were some sort of house elf serving himself up for them.

Walburga wheezed out a groan and tried to stand up, but the full force of the Dementors left her miserable. ''I'm a terrible human being.''

''Walburga, this is not the time for your mid-life crisis, please. You can try to be better after we've escaped. Think of it as the start of your redemption arc.''

Walburga then looked at Thoros with steel and disgust intertwining together on her face. ''What do you mean redemption arc? You think that I can't be worse? That I've hit rock bottom with my behaviour? You think I've turned away all the people in my life and that whenever anyone interacts with me there's only fear?'' Thoros thought all of these things but he was too busy staring down a Dementor with a crush on him to give a definitive answer.

She pushed herself to her wobbly feet and grabbed hold of a wall to prop herself up. She aimed her wand at the Dementor staring down Thoros deliciously and sneered: ''YOU'VE SEEN NOTHING YET, THOROS!'' And from the wand shot a mongoose straight through the Dementor. It screeched in its death. Thoros jumped from out of the way and surged towards Walburga, brandishing his wand and thinking desperately of his son and him calling him 'dad' for the first time. It was the most powerful memory he could muster.

Thoros cast the patronus charm, but formed no corporeal patronus. He struggled with it, but the light nonetheless flashed. The Dementors jumped back and retreated upward to the top of the tall spire of Azkaban prison. Finally, they had had enough.

Walburga panted. Her mongoose shattered down, but she stood. Thoros marvelled at an undead woman. ''Do you know about Riddle?'' She nodded. ''We need to get rid of his horcruxes.'' Walburga's face flooded with tears at the mention of that magic. There were things she learned in her death, of a boy with a love for his elf and a penchant for doing the heroic thing.

''Yes. Let us first reconvene home.'' Walburga said.

Thoros offered up his home.

''They will be looking for you there.'' Walburga said. Thoros and she walked down the steps instead of jumping down. On their way down they saw many familiar, but vacant faces. Thoros stopped moving, but Walburga pulled him to continue. There was no point in mourning the dead when the offer to become dead was so near and real.

''What home do you mean, then?''

Walburga shrugged. ''I've got a beau from the afterlife that’s left me his manor to use as I pleased.''

''I am too tired to even think about that string of words put together, Walburga.''

Lucius, Severus, and Grindelwald were waiting for them at the bottom of Azkaban's stairs. Lucius' hair was in all directions. Severus was blinking, dazed. He hadn't flown in a long time and thought that maybe he didn't have it in him. Grindelwald had slowed their fall with his magic.

He wished them well and disapparated. Walburga finally said: ''I don't see it.''

''What?''

''What Dumbledore saw in him, I don't see it.''

''Maybe you shouldn't.''

''Don't tell me what to do, Thoros.''

Lucius, desperately: ''Excuse me, but is my father-''

''Abraxas is too stupid to die even if he got killed, Lucius. We both returned in different places at the same time.'' Lucius looked beyond grateful.

Lucius, Thoros, and Walburga disapparated to her hidden home. Severus said that he needed something else to do. A pit in his stomach formed and deepened when he disapparated.

* * *

Eileen Snape heard knocking on her front door. She stood, much calmer than she usually would, and strolled towards it. Tobias was knocked out cold from the beer he'd consumed. The bottle was on a table next to him. The knocking wasn't timed to any thunder.

Her arm wrapped around the door handle. There was no trepidation (of course there was, but Eileen could feel in her rattling brain that this was not dangerous) so she opened the door.

Her hands flew to cover her mouth. Tears welled across her cheeks. She pushed her hands away by sheer will and threw open her arms to wrap around the man waiting on the other side of the threshold. She cried out his name with happiness nobody but a mother could have: ''SEVERUS!''

Severus outstretched his arms to greet the hug and apologized for not changing into something more appropriate. Eileen didn't even notice the Azkaban rag hanging loosely off of his shoulders. She only hugged her son, immobile with great joy.

''My son,'' Eileen cupped his head in her hands. He was the gangly sort and had to bend so his mother could hold him. ''My boy.''

''Mum.'' Severus' voice broke just as Azkaban had tried breaking him.

''Come in.'' Eileen pulled him inside. She grabbed hold of the bottle Tobias was drinking and what remained of the droplets used to pour Tobias awake. He sputtered and the first thing he saw was Eileen, smiling. That was such a rare sight. Then his vision crystallized and awareness returned to him. His son stood behind her. There was tenseness in his shoulders just as Tobias felt tense by being in his presence.

''We should tell you something.'' Tobias said. Eileen nodded and went upstairs to dig some of Tobias' clothes for Severus to wear. Severus welcomed the gesture and gave in to his curiosity. His parents had never been there for him growing up magic. They'd hidden their involvement and it was only because Abraxas Malfoy himself reached out to Severus through Lucius that Severus ever got a proper magical education. He never forgave his parents for abandoning him so easily. When that terrible day with Lupin happened, everybody's parents were there. Only Abraxas was there for Severus. That was the first time he'd met Walburga Black, while she was staring at her son like she didn't recognize him, and avoiding Abraxas' and Severus' gaze. To attack a Slytherin was unfathomable. Even one of misfortunate birth. His mother had been Sacred Twenty-Eight.

After changing clothes and being bombarded with offers of food and blankets (still no warming charms in his home) Severus finally decided to listen to what his parents had to say. Eileen sat next to him and held onto him as if he would leave. Tobias looked at him warily as if he would transform into that monster.

''Severus, the first thing you need to know is that your mother's very _expensive_.''

''Sev, dear, the first thing you need to know is that your father can't say _no_ to me and that's a problem on its own.''

Severus smiled. This was a fight, but not one of blame.

At the end of their explanation he was frowning very deeply and bogglingly staring at his parents. It was as if they'd grown two additional heads overnight. He kneaded the blanket with his fingers and focused on the soothing fabric crinkling at his touch. Eileen pulled him into another hug and Severus thought about how royally screwed he was if they allowed Riddle to attack _them_ instead of vanquishing him first.

He needed to alert people. To gather forces. Rally the masses. Join up the Death Eaters and pitch them an idea where they held mutiny against … no, no that wouldn't work as nobody took him seriously. If Bellatrix did it they would all rally behind their General. Not the teenager interning at Death Eater-ship.

''I’ve betrayed him.'' Severus hoarsely whispered. The full picture of his situation slammed into him. It rang in his head. ''By killing me he's getting at you two, too.''

Eileen and Tobias were aggrieved, yet they knew their son spoke the truth.

''We must kill him.'' Severus said. Meaning the Death Eaters; meaning the Order; meaning Harry Potter; meaning anyone capable of doing it.

''Would be hilarious if Abraxas Malfoy killed Lord Voldemort.'' Eileen threw the idea out there, flippantly, as Eileen seemed to be doing more of nowadays. Severus had told her the stint with the poison and how it had been aimed for the true spy.

''I worry about your sense of humour, Eileen.''

'' _You_ proposed to me, Toby.''

''Because I love you!'' Tobias said as Eileen was shouting over him: ''Fully aware of what my sense of humour was like!''

Severus tried not to think about the bleak light his life was dimming to. Instead he grounded himself in the present and watched his parents. Eileen asked him if he would stay the night. Severus thought of his plan, that he needed every waking minute to get it into motion, that he couldn't afford himself this pause – but he said: ''If you'll have me.''

''Your bloody Hobbit things are still in your room. We didn't touch anything. I was afraid your mother would convert it to a weed garden.'' Tobias said. As he stood up from his chair to go to the bathroom he patted Severus on the shoulder fondly. Severus decided to be happy for one night and miserable for the rest of his life.

''You wish.'' Eileen shot back. ''But I've no green thumbs.'' Then she turned to Severus and asked that question every parent was programmed to ask: ''So, anyone special in your life, Sev?''

Severus thought of Lily and decided that the one person he could unload all of that drama and agony onto was his mother. Eileen, much alike every parent, regretted asking that question.


	33. All Roads Lead to Greece: Side TMR

January 2nd 1999

Tom Riddle watched as his home for the past ten-ish years burned in a chemical flash of wrongly mixed potions. He turned to Hermione who looked just a tad _too_ shaken up to be shaken up genuinely. It was oversold, or maybe his pupil was just that overdramatic. She apologized profusely and wrung her hands together, continuously saying that it'd been an accident.

''No shite.'' Montgomery found his voice, from the surprise defaulting into cockney, but at Hermione's look he corrected it to American. ''I am surprised we haven't run into this sort of problem earlier.'' Hermione looked offended for a moment. Montgomery pushed down his paranoid thoughts that told him Hermione had made that potions mistake on purpose and flung Zorka's cabin into deliberate disarray. It made no sense. Why would Hermione make herself homeless, too?

''Does,'' Hermione inquired, stuttering by accident, ''does this mean that for a bit, just a bit, sir—''

''What?'' Montgomery's voice was demanding. ''What do you want to say, Hermione?'' It wasn't like his pupil to have such a guarded way of speaking to him. It'd started at the New Year's celebration. Two days passed since then.

''Does this mean I could go visit Viktor until you and Zorka settled the repairs?'' The question came in a blurry string of words that Montgomery almost had trouble understanding. Almost.

He nodded: ''Perhaps that would be for the best.''

Hermione looked relieved. Too relieved. Montgomery took hold of her wrist and said: ''If I find out that you did this just so you could go and visit your little boyfriend, Hermione,'' his voice was made of the coldest steel – perhaps in retrospect he would call it _too_ cold, ''I will be very disappointed in you.''

Hermione's eyes widened and she briskly said: ''I would _never_.''

Montgomery Goldsmith had seen the flash from the wrongly mixed potions and cast a protective shield around Hermione and him, but the only thing that he managed to save from his potions stock was _one_ see-through vial labelled AM. For the life of him and the head injury flying debris had kindly gifted him, Montgomery Goldsmith couldn't remember from which compartment he'd taken the vial.

Hermione had cast episkey to stop the bleeding, but there would be a scar on the side of his head. Maybe he could find Harry Potter and have Albus Dumbledore take a photograph of them.

Zorka's cabin was imploding in on itself the more they let the cabin burn. The taste and smell of chemicals had Hermione coughing up smoke and Montgomery's eyes watering.

''ODLIČNO! MA NE! E SLUŠAJ, OVO JE _EKSTRA_ , MONTY! SUPER ! **ODLIČNO** , ETO ŠTA JE OVO!'' Zorka's speech was unintelligible for the most part because she kept yelling how AMAZING it was to see her cabin burning to cinders. When she tried to extinguish the flames Montgomery told her it was for naught and the reaction needed to calm itself. Magic fires and all that. Fickle things. She turned to Montgomery and yelled in his face, her face lined with veins: ''ODJEBITE I TI,'' then turned to Hermione, ''I OVO TVOJE REMEK-DJELO, VJEŠTICE!''

Crookshanks and Nagini were not far from the humans and were observing. They were in the forest hunting at the time of the accident and remained unharmed.

'' _Nagini, how are you doing?''_ Montgomery inquired.

She hissed: ' _'Fine. Are we moving?''_

Tom nodded. Then they continued their not so eloquent conversation. In the end he picked her up and she wrapped around his shoulders like a big shawl.

''Zorka, I understand you're angry, but Hermione isn't in the wrong here. That could have happened to anyone.''

''OK!'' Zorka turned all of her anger and attention to Montgomery and spoke the Queen's English: ''This is it. This is all I'm willing to put up with. Go. Both of you. Gone. Adios. ĆAO! VOZDRA! BYE! FIN! ENDE! You're going, going, going – aaaand gone!''

''Zorka, you are acting very brashly.''

Zorka was having none of this bullshit. Montgomery Goldsmith knew that the woman had a lot on her plate. She'd suffered an acute attack by her family and their nosy questions about how her life was going nowhere, mourned her child still and relapsed from coping to not-coping very easily in the winter because of some little thing called seasonal depression, and to top it all off found that her difficult tenant had set fire to a home she and her mentally-absent husband had made together. This was why, strategically, Montgomery would recede from the upcoming fight and return when Zorka could better manage a conversation.

''Okay. Okay. We're going.'' Montgomery gestured him, Nagini, and Hermione who had picked Crookshanks up. ''I'll give you a few days to process this, Zorka. Then I'll send a letter. Is that all right?''

''I will _kill_ any messenger you send me.'' Zorka had had enough and was defaulting to cursing him out. ''KRETENU! OLI DA ME UBIJEŠ? NIJE TI DOSTA ŠTO SAM TI POMOGLA TIJELO NAĆ' _JE L'?!''_

Tom Riddle knew that when women yelled at him it was on him to leave as quickly as possible. He raised his hands in a sign that he was not going to fight Zorka on this (he felt grateful towards her because she'd helped him build his body and rebuilt his life from the ground up).

Hermione and he went to Lakeisha Durant's portkey café. Lakeisha Durant was asleep, but ever vigilant Francois was on his feet ready to assist.

''I'm looking for a bottle of some Albanian brandy… liquor? It stings when you drink it.'' Tom Marvolo Riddle knew alcohol as well as Walburga Black knew how to behave around poor people.

Hermione did not go for the Bulgarian portkey. Tom Riddle watched her from the corner of his eye. He saw her gravitating towards the UK portkey. Strange. Very, very strange. Crookshanks was meowing loudly. Nagini hissed: _''Pretty cat.''_ Crookshanks then started purring.

Francois led Tom to the Albanian portkey and said that Mesdames Beatrice, Lena, and Merrythought had gone via that one.

''Merci, Francois.'' Tom Riddle smiled. Francois nodded.

Hermione was waiting for him to use his portkey. She stuck out from the bustling crowd and was pretending to examine the surrounding portkeys very, very extensively. Tom Riddle narrowed his eyes and propped an elbow on the table where the Albanian portkey was. ''Hermione, what kind of mentor would I be if I didn't see you off on your travel. Isn't Krum in Bulgaria?''

She twitched. ''He's got a match in Britain, sir.''

''Has he now?'' Tom Riddle let his accent slip past the American accent and she called him out on it.

''Sir, my English accent has _really_ rubbed off on you. Go on ahead and see if professor Merrythought may give you some of her Irish lilt.'' There was a challenge in her tone. Then she amended it quickly, as if realising whom she spoke to. It was strange. She'd never had a problem speaking to Mentor Montgomery with a healthy dose of cheek before.

''Ladies first, Hermione.'' Montgomery wondered why his pupil was being so difficult. She was hiding something. Age and experience with young liars told him enough.

Crookshanks was very phlegmatic in Hermione's grasp and made no fuss. Nagini hissed at him again and Crookshanks' purring intensified. Tom wondered if Nagini was a cat person because she seemed delighted by cats. **''Age before beauty.''** Hermione shot back.

Tom Riddle didn't know that _Ladies first_ had a comeback. People arriving from their respected portkeys were beginning to take notice of their conversation. They were staring. Montgomery Goldsmith didn't like people looking at him, glamoured or no. He yielded in the end, just to avoid being seen or worse – somehow _recognized_.

The portkey spat him and Nagini out in a town called Skadar. It was near a lake called Skadar Lake. It was a National Park in Montenegro and a smaller part of it poured into Albanian's borders.

Tom Riddle did his tracking spells and set forth to find his professor. They led him to a lake house. Before he could knock a second time Merrythought opened up the door and Tom Riddle had to look up because if he looked downward he'd see his professor in a light he truly did not want to see anyone.

''Professor,'' Tom Riddle found the tiles on the roof fascinating. Nagini, on the other hand, did not. She hissed compliments and Tom Riddle was reminded that Nagini had an eye unlike any snake and loved to compliment everyone.

Merrythought glanced down at her open bathrobe and tied it together post haste. There was a drowsy haze present in her red eyes that she cleared up by yawning and inviting Tom inside to have a cup of Irish coffee.

''Could I skip the Irish part by any chance?''

''Won't force you, but a drink would do you good.''

''Is Lena nearby?'' Tom wished to avoid Lena as their last meeting was unsavoury to remember and dreadful to even think about re-enacting.

Merrythought pointed to a bedroom with a coffin. It was closed. The sun was on top of the world and signified noon. She'd sleep for much more. Beatrice, too, by the state of her sprawled out on the bed. Merrythought slid into a kitchen and began making them cups of coffee. She poured herself a generous amount of whisky and gave him all the sugar he wanted.

Tom, who realised he'd never said he liked his coffee sweet, narrowed his eyes at Merrythought and tried to feel if she was using legilimency on him. His occlumency shields were slowly mending. Key word: slowly.

''Between all of your little pawns at school and you, I saw you eating the most chocolates after every Hogsmeade raid.'' Merrythought drank her coffee in one go.

Tom Riddle added a fourth cube of sugar unapologetically and made no comment on her observation. Up until age eleven he'd never eaten anything sweet and was making sure to catch up on lost time. While he sipped his coffee and watched Merrythought slowly awakening he asked, nonchalantly: ''Do you still want to visit Herpo the Foul?'' Merrythought hadn't quite had the time to answer his letter about going to the Horcrux Creator's what with rescuing Beatrice and placating Lena. Since New Year's two days had passed. She felt partied out and ready to commit to a life of certain death. Immortality bored her to tears and she was immortal only for a month (fifty years, same difference).

''I would not be against that.'' Merrythought decided. She gleefully went to get her supplies and handed some magical potions for Montgomery to keep hold of in his extended pockets. He said that the muggles didn't value keeping things on their persons as well as magical folk did.

''Is the snake coming?'' Merrythought pointed at Nagini. She hissed and Tom had to talk her down from striking.

''Nagini doesn't like to be spoken to like this.''

''What kind of snake doesn't want to be talked to like a snake?''

''Nagini is not a snake.'' Tom Riddle leaned in to whisper this as a very important secret. Merrythought asked what the hell she was then. Tom's answer made her groan. ''Nagini is not a snake, professor, but she does happen to be in _form_ of a snake''

''I'm done with your riddles, Riddle.''

'' _Where are you taking me?''_

'' _Herpo the Foul. Maybe he could help you while he's helping professor Merrythought.''_

'' _Are you rich?''_

'' _In personality.''_

'' _So, you have no money.''_

'' _I can get by.''_

'' _This trip will be good.''_

'' _Do you know Herpo?''_

'' _I know enough that if you call him that he will never help you.''_

Tom speculatively glanced at Nagini one last time before relaying this interesting conversation to Merrythought. She raised her brows and asked if she ought to bring some more money with her.

'' _Yes.''_

''Nagini says yes.''

They got their supplies and left for Greece.

* * *

Francois saw them and gestured to a bottle of Ouzo for the Greek portkey. Tom asked where Hermione had gone and Francois said that that was information he could not disclose as he valued the privacy of their clients.

Nagini hissed: _''Girl is weird.''_

'' _Indeed she is.''_

This portkey left them on a dock facing the Ionian Sea. The sun hit them immediately and Merrythought pulled up her aspen wand to conjure them nice hats. She tried conjuring one for Nagini, but Nagini refused to wear that sort of thing and tried to bite Merrythought again.

''What is wrong with this not-a-snake-snake?''

''She's really old.'' Tom explained apologetically. Nagini liked few people to touch her, mostly because Nagini liked even fewer people.

'' _I am done with pandering to human notions of civility. Snake rules now.''_

'' _You've been saying that for the past forty years, but you never commit. What do you want out of life?''_

'' _Food. Sun. Safety. To forget.''_

'' _You are making me sad, Nagini.''_

'' _Good. Every time you open your mouth you make me exasperated. Just because you're warm and respectful doesn't mean I have to listen to your problems and be your emotional support. It tires me.''_

Tom turned to Merrythought and said that Nagini was a very peculiar magical being.

'' _Especially because you left me in that stupid home with a stupid painting and an even stupider visitor; the only reason why I am still with you is because you take me places and don't patronize me.''_

'' _I was insane, Nagini.''_

'' _With respect that is due – very little – you have always been. But you are finally aware of it now.''_

Tom Riddle did not know how to answer, so he elected not to. Nagini curled further around him form warmth and he cast a warming charm. But the familiar ice buried deeper. Merrythought shuddered and looked towards the open sea, trying to pinpoint in which direction they should go. ''It's shielded with notice-me-not wards.'' Her expertise suggested.

''Of course it is. It's an island full of Basilisks.''

'' _The basilisks are not the reason why it is hidden.''_

'' _Have you_ been _there?''_

'' _Once. I can go again.''_ Nagini hissed and it sounded like nothing good would come of it. She flicked her tail at Tom's face and he blinked and asked her if she was going to shed her skin and that was why she was being like this. Another flick in his face told him that was an insensitive thing to ask a snake.

Merrythought tried haggling for a boat, but the Greek fisherman said that it was his way or no way at all. Tom rectified this by imperiusing him with his new wand. It listened to him much more than the yew did. The Greek's eyes had gone blurry and he'd shown them to the boat with a smile and offered to row them where they needed to go.

Tom gestured to the motor on the boat and asked why they couldn't use the motor and the Greek's shoulders tensed. ''Best not. It will wake _them_.'' He pointed to the sea with a shaky finger.

Merrythought didn't pay any attention to the Greek's words. She was watching her pupil wield dark magic with ease and felt unease. Sitting down next to their boat rower gave her a good view of Tom Riddle. Lena had told her everything about her pupil's crimes the day before.

''Does it come easily to you?'' Merrythought couldn't help but ask. Tom turned to her and asked what she meant. ''Defaulting to dark magic.''

''Yes.'' He answered her without hesitation. Without any shame. Lena said she'd taught him to be unapologetic in his magic, but that she'd made his arrogance double in result.

''Do you even know how many you've –'' It was her fondness for him as a student, as a son she didn't have that had her stopping before the last word. When she'd first seen him in Munich she'd been overjoyed to see her brightest pupil. But the more time she spent talking with him she could see where the horcruxes made a dent in his logic and his conscience. It was not an easy life he'd lived, but many people lived worse lives without taking lives. None of this absolved him.

''I do not.'' He answered her, inferring correctly. ''It was war.''

''But before?''

''Four.''

Nagini slithered down from Tom's shoulders and curled in a small rounded circle on the boat's floor.

''Do you feel _any_ remorse?'' Merrythought had read the same books Tom Riddle had. They were both immortal, but Merrythought wanted to cleanse herself of the burden. She played with her wedding ring and yearned for her soul to be returned whole. She very much wanted to die and say she'd lived. Not die and still live.

Tom did not answer her question.

The sea was calm. This was not, necessarily, a good thing. If the sea were riled up and there were waves crashing into their little dingy boat it would have been just them versus the elements. Tom Riddle would have cast spells to destroy the waves. Merrythought would have cast levitation charms on the boat. They would have gone past that and reached the hidden Island's shore somehow.

No, the sea was calm. Their captain was rowing with shaky fingers. It took Tom more than half of his concentration to spell him obedient. There was something that scared him too much to keep him focused on the task. The Captain's brain clawed against the imperius bond with full strength, but Tom did not let him off so easily. He overtook control and whispered that this was odd. Merrythought hummed in agreement.

Underneath the small boat were creatures. They were smart and trailed underneath the boat's centre so they could not be spotted. More of them joined. They looked between each other and smiled with mouths full of jagged teeth and webbed claws. One pointed up to the boat and another nodded.

''I love you like a son, but don't you think that using this opportunity to heal your soul is much better than clinging onto this – Tom, are you pretending to talk to Nagini to avoid a civil and adult conversation about your bad life choices in life?''

Tom, in fact, was.

Nagini was not yielding to the pretend conversation.

Merrythought crossed her arms and looked off into the far distance. Who was she to try and guide her student? Perhaps she was in the wrong by trying to do so as Tom was in his seventies and ought to know how to think on his own. But the urge to inflict her opinion on the youth was too great.

She was just about to turn around and continue her lecture when she heard a beautiful, enchanting song. It made all of her thoughts stop, both the unhappy and the merry ones. It sang directly into her heart and then jumped from her ribcage, crawled up her throat, and clawed straight into her brain. Her red eyes blurred and she looked towards the open sea with longing. The singing spoke of love and made promises of a brilliant time. Merrythought's hand latched onto the edge of the boat and she pushed herself into a standing position.

The Ionian Sea was clear turquoise with shimmering sunbeams glittering off of it. The creatures hid underneath the boat so they would not be spotted and bided their time. Their webbed claws sharpened in anticipation. Their sharp teeth could bite through bone, but none of those features were the greatest danger. Slowly their singing grew louder and more pronounced.

Tom Riddle was using his mental effort to keep the rower on track, Nagini was trying to sleep, but she was hissing at Riddle to quit talking to her, and Merrythought was climbing up to jump overboard. All sound around her buzzed into a haze. Everything dimmed except the mesmerizing sea beckoning for her company. Who was Galatea Merrythought to say no?

In the shimmering distance she could see a beautiful woman winking at her and running a smooth hand over a rocky surface for Merrythought to join in. Merrythought smiled and wanted to see what the lovely lady wanted. Where was the harm in a little –?

Tom Riddle grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her back into the boat. ''What in Merlin's name are you doing, professor Merrythought?''

There was no bigger mood killer than hearing the voice of Tom Riddle, a boy Merrythought thought of as an annoying little nerd. It brought her clarity for only a moment. ''I wanted to swim. There was a lady over there on that – there's no rock…'' In fact, there wasn't. The singing had stopped, too.

She turned to Tom Riddle and asked him if he'd heard any beautiful ladies in their area singing seductive songs. Tom's expression was something between annoyance and confusion. ''I just heard _gurgling_ …''

Something rocked their boat. The muggle was whimpering and speaking prayers in Greek. Merrythought and Tom took out their wands and pressed into each other back to back.

''That was no gurgling.'' Merrythought said.

''It sounded like that to me.''

''Amortentia tastes like nothing to you, lad, you're rather queer about these things. Have you ever heard a siren sing?''

Tom Riddle had not. He'd heard _mermaids_ talking to him, but that was at Hogwarts and they were enchanted not to be able to drag horny and unsuspecting teenagers into the deep depths of the Hogwarts Lake. But no, he'd never heard a mermaid or a siren sing.

More sirens came up to the shore and began harmonizing. They were staring at him like predators who'd miscalculated their prey.

''Shoot them! Shoot them before they all get in sync!'' Merrythought was firing tongue twisting hexes. Tom joined her, but a pair of sirens managed to sign in key. Merrythought's grasp on her wand turned flaccid and she giggled like a school girl. ''Oho! Such a pretty song, Tom. Heh hee!'' Merrythought, yet again, was attempting to jump overboard. ''Such beautiful ladies calling to me, too.'' Merrythought began taking off her clothes.

''Get back in the boat you useless lesbian! You've got two lovers already – the sirens don't even care about what happens to you. They only wish to eat the skin off of your face and leave the rest to sharks!'' Whether or not this was true Tom Riddle did not know. He was not an expert on siren behaviour. That was Narcissa Malfoy and she was off in Britain listening to a frazzled Abraxas Malfoy explaining to her that he had killed Albus Dumbledore.

Merrythought was diving into the sea. Nagini curled around her legs and stopped her from falling down into the ocean. She was just trying to untangle Nagini on the boat in order to join her seductresses.

''This is why sex is unnecessary!'' Tom Riddle, ardent believer that sex was unnecessary and ought to only ever be used as a manipulation tactic, began shouting his opinions. A siren swam up to the rocking boat and began singing, but its illusionary form was that of a very handsome bloke. Tom had no problem kicking it in its beautiful face with sneakers Marko, Zorka's sailor brother, had bought him for New Year's. ''Stop it! I cannot be seduced!''

Stumped, the rest of the sirens regrouped on the rock and allowed Merrythought, Tom, and Nagini to form a plan of their own. ''Just putting it out there that I know how to fly.''

''How long can you fly all three of us?''

''Not long.''

''Save that flying energy then when he figure out where the Island is hidden.''

'' _Why don't you just cast silencing charms on yourselves?''_

''Why don't we just cast silencing charms on ourselves, professor?''

Nagini deadpanned on Tom.

''Excellent question, but a stupid one. If you do this then they'll sneak up on us and drown us.''

''Can we drown is the question.''

''Death is a mercy from drowning, lad.''

Meanwhile the sirens were talking similarly.

''The female human is easy to lure, but the other human is odd and seems that no form we take is working for him.''

''I think he cares not for the forms we take, but the songs we try to sell.''

''Hmm… you mean to say that we must sing _That_ song?''

''I haven't been practising that song. We get those types so rarely! What kind of person doesn't want to have a fun time with us?''

''Very rare humans. _That_ song will be sung. Prepare.''

The sirens came very closely to the boat now. Tom, Nagini, and Merrythought had their wands ready and their bites filled with venom.

''We started off on the wrong foot.'' One of the sirens spoke. Another nodded. They weren't using illusionary magic anymore and were showing off their jagged teeth and monstrous appearance. As a sign of good faith. Merrythought thought that maybe they'd realised they'd been bested and were about to let them pass. She did not lower her wand.

''Yes, yes.'' Another sing sang.

''You either talk in a flat, off key voice or you don't talk at all!'' Merrythought threatened and shot a stinging hex at the damned creature's mouth. It wailed and sank below the waters.

''Fair.'' The leader of the sirens whispered and approached the boat, placing its claws on the boat and looking past Merrythought and Nagini. Those translucent eyes locked with Tom's red ones. ''We have been bested by someone of exquisite taste and _power_.''

''Thank you.'' Tom Riddle said. Hearing the sirens speak of his power did make him feel good about himself. It reminded him of all the lauds he'd received growing up. How he'd lapped them up and been thrilled. A terrific depth deepened in his chest the more the sirens spoke. Some lilted even when they talked about him and how he must have dealt with sirens quite often. It came so easily to them, but they did not sing. No, there were hums hidden as splashes in the water. They were enough to capture the attention of one Tom Marvolo Riddle.

Merrythought tried stopping this from escalating by firing off another hex, but a siren sang her song and pacified her. Nagini was hissing, trying desperately to get through to either of her companions.

Tom was leaning into the conversation. His eyes glowed hungrily. His grip loosened on the wand. The praises kept coming and promises of more power and greatness surged from the lips of the sirens into Tom's ears. A pleased shudder ran through him.

Merrythought's siren slid through the sea towards her and serenaded. It was an enchanting song and it kind of reminded her of Beatrice. Merrythought's romantically bleeding heart disposition had her almost falling into the sea.

Nagini was panicking. This was not a good thing to be doing when one was in form of a snake. Irrationality did not suit Nagini, so it stood as fact that when she lunged to bite Tom Riddle she was doing this in an attempt to salvage his sanity. Though, a little part of her did want to get back at him for leaving her in a dusty old home with nothing but a blond idiot for company.

Tom Riddle screamed the same sort of scream he'd screamed when another venomous snake had bitten him. The sirens stopped their singing. Especially when the Greek muggle awoke from his imperiused state, took up his oar, and slammed it straight over the siren leader's head. The sirens all fled then, finding this boat and its inhabitants too much effort.

''Lad!'' Merrythought was rummaging through her supplies to find him a bezoar. She shoved it down his throat and Nagini was apologizing, but she was running out of options.

''If you just told me you were looking for Alexio's island…'' The Greek man was speaking English slowly. ''I would have told you the coordinates.''

''We didn't think you had those… you were being very unhelpful back there.'' Merrythought, who had been speaking to the Greek, was trying to paint herself as right and him as wrong.

''You asked me to drive you across the sea. I told you that I wouldn't and that my boat could not be rented because it was the only one I had. This boat is everything for my family and me. You cast spells on me!''

Tom Riddle was looking at his blood covered leg in dismay and casting healing spells. Nagini was curling up to him and he was scowling at her deeply.

''I'm sorry, but this is an emergency for us, too!'' Merrythought was pulling rank and saying that she was not sorry for doing this to Mr. Greek guy. He took offense to being called this and said that his name was Andreas and that he did not like how he was being spoken to.

While this was going on Tom took notice that the sirens stopped being visible when they swam past two rocks. Were Tom Riddle a video game player he would have called such a thing reminiscent of those times when the landscape didn't render in completely and it looked like the moving NPCs had glitched into a different dimension.

''I rather think that the island is exactly behind those two rocks the sirens used for a singing stage.''

Andreas told him that that would not be a wrong conclusion and that when he dropped them off to the island they could think of a new way of getting back. Merrythought crossed her arms and said that that was agreeable.

'' _A lot has changed since my time visiting here.''_

'' _When did you go?''_

'' _1946.''_

'' _I was twenty, then.''_

'' _Not everything is about you.''_

'' _Did he not have what you needed?''_

Nagini hissed unintelligibly. Tom took that as an angry shout to switch the topic. He pulled her up and she wrapped around him like a statement fashion piece.

They arrived to the island to find the biggest basilisk in human existence lounging on the beach and soaking in the sun. It had its eyes closed and Tom thought that Beatrice looked like an infant compared to it. Tom pushed Merrythought to move as quickly as they could past it. She'd frozen at the spot and latched her eyes onto the basilisk.

''Tom, is that thing in Hogwarts?''

''No, no. Beatrice is very small and the best behaved snake you will ever see.''

''Beatrice?'' Merrythought found the fact that the Hogwarts basilisk shared the same name with her wife hilarious.

''From Dante Alighieri's Divine Comedy.'' Tom proudly interwove his advanced reading skills into the conversation like every overachiever. ''She named herself.'' It was touching how Tom praised snake Beatrice, but Merrythought needed to remember that they were in enemy territory.

The layout of the island was like this: On one side of the island was a giant basilisk reclining in the sun like a cat on vacation. Tall trees lined their vision and once they entered the forest they saw a rocky path leading towards stairs that allowed them to climb up towards the highest peak in the hillsidesque island. On their way there Tom said that he heard hissing, but saw no snakes.

'' _They keep themselves hidden until the last moment. Be lucky you do not see them. Their gazes are deadly.''_

'' _The basilisk's gaze did not hurt me.''_

'' _This does not make you special. It makes this Beatrice weak on you. These are not your ancestor's pets.''_ Nagini warned.

When they got to the stairs there was a sphinx at the entrance. She placed her paws in a welcoming gesture to Merrythought, Tom, and Nagini and greeted them in a booming and echoing voice: ''Welcome, visitors. You have travelled here for your own reasons. By passing the sirens you have shown your determination and strength. Now it is time for you to show your creativity and knowledge. I shall give you one riddle and each time you give me a wrong answer I shall send foes to attack you. There will be three chances for you to get the riddle correct. If even then you do not succeed you will _see_.''

''That doesn't sound ominous _at all._ '' Merrythought whispered. Tom snort laughed. Nagini hissed at them that this was serious.

''If you choose not to play we shall escort you back to the sea for the sirens to have another go at you.''

''We accept to play.'' Tom said. ''What is your riddle, Sphinx?''

The Sphinx stared at Merrythought and said that since Galatea Merrythought was an expected guest she would give her party an easy riddle.

''That which fears death has many names. What is one of the names?''

'' _Tom Riddle.''_ Nagini joked, but the Sphinx understood parseltongue and that was counted as the first attempt.

''Incorrect.''

''Nagini!'' Tom was shouting, but the air surrounding them changed. It became heavy with laden anxiety. The Sphinx waited for them to get another idea while snakes from the nearby bushes jumped to ambush them. Merrythought panicked and cast fiendfyre on the forest and the squealing snakes. The Sphinx's eyes widened and she flew into the sky to stop from getting singed.

''Attempt two?''

Merrythought, noticing that she'd dealt with the enemies, pulled her fiendfyre back into her wand. She pretended that none of this had happened and whistled a tune. Tom was trying to think of an answer. Nagini kept her mouth shut.

''Could you repeat the riddle?'' Tom tried to buy them time.

''Does the whole team want to buy more time?''

''Yeah, yeah. If the lad wants more time I want more time, too.''

Galatea Merrythought was a Hufflepuff and on record she said many times that there was a reason why she was not a Ravenclaw. Riddles eluded her. There was also a reason why Tom Riddle would not have made a good Ravenclaw even if he wasn't bloodily a Slytherin. Ravenclaws had a sense of nonchalant riddle solving about them that Tom Riddle and Galatea Merrythought simply didn't.

''Do you have any idea?'' Merrythought asked. Tom shrugged and shook his head no. She wheezed with laughter.

Her aspen wand pointed to the sphinx and she said: ''What if we best you in combat?''

''That defeats the point of the game, but if you do not want to use your brain cells-''

'' _Collectively we've got three and I'm using two of them right now.''_ Nagini whispered.

The Sphinx cracked a grin at Nagini and said that the snake was amusing and could pass. Nagini slithered up the stairs and said she'd be waiting for them at the top.

''I know good jokes!'' Merrythought was ready to try and fight with words and comedy for a change. Tom Riddle, remembering his skit as Lord Voldemort, said that he could make the Sphinx laugh, too.

The Sphinx fluttered her wings slowly until she gracefully touched down on the ground and said that that sounded _perfect_. Her face contorted in agony. ''Riddles bore me, to be honest.''

Merrythought asked the Sphinx if she knew her geography because she had a very good joke about geography. Tom Riddle did not think that there could be any good jokes about geography as he relied on dark humour as a coping mechanism, but seeing as it wasn't his place to interrupt a teacher he watched the upcoming train wreck.

The Sphinx said that she didn't know America. When a European said America they never meant the continent or ever thought of South America or even North America because Canda was part of North America – no, when a European said America they only meant that one place where everything was similar to watching a tumbleweed on fire.

Luckily for Merrythought her joke had nothing to do with America.

She cracked her knuckles and coughed to clear her throat. ''Which country's capital has the fastest-growing population?''

Tom and the Sphinx waited for the answer.

Merrythought broke into laughter before she answered. It was very unprofessional. ''Ireland.'' Then she cracked up again and doubled over with laughter. Her answer was wheezed out. ''Every day it's _Dublin_.''

The Sphinx stared emotionlessly at the pair of them. Tom was preparing for another onslaught of serpentine attack. He cross referenced all of the spells in his head that could be used in this occasion.

Merrythought was still laughing at her bad pun.

The Sphinx's lips pulled back in an amused smile. ''You may pass… You're too ridiculous not to laugh at.''

Merrythought thanked the Sphinx and climbed up the rocky stairs. She told Tom to think of funny things. ''Don't talk about your life, please! It'll just depress the lovely Sphinx.''

Tom Riddle did not heed his professor's words as he knew from experience that there was nothing funnier than seeing someone else miserable.

''Mine's more of a funny anecdote.'' Tom said.

''How long is it?''

Tom Riddle thought about how old he was. Seventy-two years of material could be summed up in: ''Not very long.''

''All right.''

He struck a pose and whispered in a storytelling fashion: ''The year is _1926_!''

By the time Tom Riddle got to the year 1945 and ended his hilariously repressed childhood memories the Sphinx was ready to just end herself and terminate her employment with Alexio. ''Go up those stairs, Tom Riddle. I desperately need a career change.''

''Working with people is the worst.'' Tom Riddle said from his experience.

''It really is.'' The Sphinx vowed to retire.

Atop the stairs he found their third obstacle. Nagini was wrapped around Merrythought's shoulders like a traitor.

''Is that a volcano?''

It was bubbling with lava, but it wasn't erupting.

''I do believe so, lad.''

''Do we have to cross over it?''

''It seems that we do. There's a bridge that looks like it can fall-''

Tom grabbed hold of Merrythought and without any warning flew all three of them across.

On the other side he saw a man waiting for them. He was surrounded by sculpted statues of terrified people. Tom, from experience, knew that these were actually petrified people. The man was sitting on a statue and sipping a tetra pack juice. He had no eyes and it was very disconcerting when he looked at Tom Riddle directly.

For a long moment there was nothing but silence and the frustrated sipping of a tetra pack juice. This was broken, however, by the man's question to Merrythought and Riddle: ''Out of curiosity… do you two _know_ how to read?''

''Excuse me?''

''Ah, they are deaf, too. I asked _if you knew how to read_?''

''Yes.'' Both answered.

The man laughed and sipped on his juice. When he stopped he said: ''I couldn't tell because both of you butchered my horcrux instructions so badly that I worry I cannot help either of you… Especially him.'' He gestured Tom. ''Mr. _Six_ Horcruxes.''

''Five.'' Tom instantly corrected. Then added: ''Mr. Creator.''

''Name's Alexio, brat. I know what I said. _Six_.''

Tom Riddle counted the horcruxes on his hand and raised his outstretched palm as if wanting to high five Mr. Alexio. ''I know how many people I've killed.''

''Six.'' Alexio said. ''You didn't count Harry Potter. Or do you not count him because you destroyed piece of soul in boy already? You destroyed that horcuxes on your orders and I cannot retrieve the soul piece to your soul. I care for process more. Six times you made it. Six times you did it wrong.'' Then he turned to Merrythought: ''You I am not going to talk about. Fairies? _Really_?''

While Tom Riddle was trying to process what was being said Merrythought was defending herself. ''Can ya help me or no, Alexio?''

''I could.''

''For a price?''

''Naturally.'' Alexio said. He said his price and Merrythought asked, in a very small voice, if there was an instalment plan. Alexio said that he could arrange something with Merrythought. Around that time was when Tom Riddle began to giggle very loudly.

The reality of the situation finally struck him. ''I destroyed my _own_ horcrux!''He laughed so hard he cried. ''SIX!''

Nagini hissed: ''Stop embarrassing yourself.''

Alexio twitched when he finally heard her speak and noticed her presence. _''Well, the snake's come back crawling.''_

'' _Peh.''_

'' _Come to beg again, have you?''_

Nagini did not lunge to bite or attack. She bided her time and nuzzled against Merrythought's throat.

Tom Riddle was falling to the ground and lying on his back. ''SIX!'' He was not taking this well at all.

Merrythought was looking through how much money she had on hand and wished she'd brought along more. ''I haven't got much…''

''It is two for one offer for you because I like you.''

''Oh, thank you. That is kind of you.'' Merrythought was not used to capitalism. Alexio, meanwhile, was thriving in it.

''I _told_ him to take the shot!'' Tom Riddle remembered Maximilain Yaxley and how he'd been reluctant to shoot Harry Potter, but that Voldemort's encouragement had helped in the end. A strangled scream escaped him. **''Oh Gods!''**

Alexio ignored this spectacle and said: ''Merrythought, I focus on you now. Come, come. I shall set to work right now and you can give me all of that gold you have in the pouch and we shall call it end. Just make sure to get rid of Mr. Six before I throw him in the river Styx. Ah, that rhymed.'' Alexio liked making rhymes. He serenaded Death in perfect iambic pentameter often.

Speaking of.

Death herself arrived, only heard by Alexio, but her freezing presence was felt by each party. ''Alexio, Abraxas has kept me by his side. He is knocked out cold from exhaustion finally. I see that they have arrived. Look at them, bloodied and hurting. Let this be a lesson to them, Alexio, a lesson that this is what happens to those who oppose me- is that Nagini? Alexio, dear friend, watch yourself now.''

''What does that mean?'' Alexio addressed Death but to Merrythought, Nagini, and Tom looked like he was talking to thin air.

''Nothing nothing.'' Death lied. ''Go about as usual, dear friend. Your ransom letter has arrived finally and tomorrow you shall pay greatly.''

''Shall be greatly paid you mean?''

''Did I not say that?'' Death fluttered her wings and Alexio heard the wind pick up as she receded, off to do her job and exist. His adam' apple bobbed uncertainly as he glanced in the direction of where Tom Riddle and Merrythought were. Only Nagini spoke to him.

'' _You look tense, Alexio.''_ She commented. _''Why is that?''_

Alexio did not answer her.


	34. All Roads Lead to Greece: Side AHM

January 1st 1999

Narcissa Malfoy spent New Year's with her sisters because her husband was in Azkaban (her knuckles turned white from the _white rage_ swirling into a maelstrom in her heart), her son was missing and maybe (her breath hitched on the word, on that terrible, heinous word that Tom Riddle so feared into delusion without her understanding why, but now, now – oh now she finally _understood_ that fear, that cannibalistic feeling of her own heart eating itself)

Andromeda held her close on the sofa. They watched television together and talked about things that had no true weight. ''Did you learn mermish in the end?'' Andromeda recalled Narcissa being a weird child. Narcissa grew up to be a weird adult with weirder interests in the migratory habits of sirens with a longing to have her own family of mermaids in a lake in Malfoy Manor. Lucius – _oh Lucius_ – had promised they would make that happen, but then they never did – what with the war and then mermaids being a too dangerous influence for the peafowls (Narcisaa never forgave Abraxas for this) and then later that they would be a threat to have near a child. _Oh gods_ **_her child._**

''Yes.'' Narcissa choked out. ''I'm fluent in the Language of Water. That is the name used so it does not exclude sirens or mermaids. Their difference is dialects and the salinity of their habitats.''

Bellatrix was in the other room talking to Barty about a potential break in. There was unyielding love in her eyes for her youngest sister. It was touching to know that just after they'd escaped the wretched prison they (the General more than the Trainee) were willing to go back. Ted Tonks brought her coffee and told her that maybe staying awake would be better than falling asleep. That was what he and Andromeda did during the War, when they heard rustling of leaves and wind outside and thought that it was Death Eaters going to break into their home to kill them.

Bellatrix tactlessly said that they would not have killed a pureblood woman. ''It would waste the blood.'' She spoke and Narcissa brought a hand to her mouth to stop the coffee from coming up. Her shoulders shook and Andromeda hushed her and held her and let her cry.

''Can't you use your blood to track him?'' Bellatrix asked Narcissa.

''We'd tried. Nothing comes up. The location is well hidden. The person knows old magic, Bella.'' Narcissa clung to the hope that she dealt with an insanely well read and old mage with a penchant for dark magic. She did not want to think of other reasons why her son was not showing up with whatever tracking spell she cast and used her own blood.

Andromeda and Bellatrix glanced at each other over Narcissa's heads with pity.

Not once did Narcissa think about her father-in-law. Not once did he think of her, either.

* * *

January 1st 1999

Abraxas Malfoy scrambled to get away from Hogwarts. All of the paintings watched him as he ran, barely hanging onto the cloak and the ring and the wand and his sanity while guilt strangled him with a barbed wire enchanted to drown instead of choke.

Death trailed gently after him. He tried his best to ignore her crooked skull and chattering teeth. She hummed a song made fitting for her prey and lulled him. ''Abraxas,'' he'd asked her not to call him Master, ''the paintings have mouths.''

Impulsively Abraxas cast with the Death Stick and all of the paintings in Hogwarts froze mid thought. Deahth's chattering teeth quickened pace with glee. Her clawed bones caressed the back of his mind and whispered: ''Abraxas, shall we go? Shall I take you to your heart's desire?''

Abraxas had many desires. Ones he'd thought as an adolescent under the rule of a dangerous authority figure who pushed and pushed and pushed and it would have been so easy to push back by never letting her get another chance to push him? Another he'd thought while being so stupidly in love with a man who refused to face his own emotions under the guise of them being his cardinal weakness – it would be so easy to be loved, wouldn't it? The last he'd thought recently, now as a man with a family and a legacy to think of. Draco Malfoy's safety flashed like fireworks on New Year's.

''Where is my _grandson_?''

Death did not answer him right away and Abraxas was not keen on abusing his power. Because it would take only one skilled hex to take him away from one of the Hallows and for Death to take her vengeance. Unless. Unless.

But no. Abraxas' adam's apple bobbed. He did not want immortality. He thought of the life he'd led while under that woman's thumb and thought that being immortal would have taken away the only leverage he had: his death.

Death watched all of the emotions overflowing on his face impassively, sans the judgement of humanity. The crunch of Albus Dumbledore's bones under the pressure of Basilisk teeth made his stomach lurch forward and made his mind churn disgustedly.

He saw Nobby Leach.

He saw Nobby Leach approaching him.

He saw Nobby Leach mouthing something at him.

Abraxas stopped running. He stood rooted in place and tried to read the lips of this apparition of his addled brain. Minister Leach looked the same as he had when he'd died. There was that fascinating energy around him that drew everyone in like flame did moth. Except he'd had Tom to set the flame for him, hadn't he? Without his hidden support Leach never would have gone past the Wizengamot. No, not the Wizengamot who were worse than all of the Walburga's and all of the Abraxas' and all of the Grindelwalds. How they hoarded power and aged horrifyingly. Leach's copper eyes dazzled and his lips pulled back in a sneer and a sentence morphed into reality, but the chill, the everlasting frostbite bit straight into Abraxas' neck and drained the blood he and his ancestors so found precious.

''I await the death of you, Lord Malfoy.'' Ever cordial… even in death! Abraxas' vision blurred and he nearly fell down the moving staircase.

The ring hissed and the wand pulled and the cloak devoured and Death _watched_.

''Can I apparate?''

Apparating in Hogwarts was disallowed by the wards.

Death looked at him long. She settled on this instead of a patronizing scoff: ''You influence an integral part of the world, Abraxas. Wards bend to your will. Go to the place you feel safe. Go gather your pawns and play a game of _vengeance_.''

Abraxas clutched the wand instead of vice versa. He wore the ring instead of it wearing him like skinned dragon boots. And it was he that wore the cloak of hideous fabric.

Abraxas Hyperion Malfoy disapparated from Hogwarts.

He fell into a lake. Next he swam up to land. He saw a few dozen peafowls twisting their heads at him and cooing worriedly. Abraxas distantly noticed Malfoy Manor. He waved the Death Stick and his clothes were dry, but not the onslaught of tears threatening to truly drown him.

The entire day he spent pouring his energy into writing. Equations and factors and integrals and logarithms and curse words and misspelled names and corrected names and desperation. This would be it, he screamed in frustration and lacked one component, one honest answer that could make all the difference – he crossed out the entire equation and started anew. It wasn't until the evening when he thought that he was going to fall unconscious from exhaustion that he heard a voice and remembered that he'd _died_.

''When a wizard dies their magic lingers, but not always.'' It was a voice devoid of a French accent. ''Of course, _you_ would not know something so simple.''

Abraxas lifted his head from his papers to the voice. It belonged to a painting propped at the end of a corridor in Malfoy Manor. His silencing charm had been tampered with by his own death.

''Will you continue to stare like mindless cattle or will you actually speak up for once in your life?''

Abraxas pushed himself from the table and neared the painting. He'd not heard that voice since 1956. No, correction, he'd not heard that voice since the time he'd faced off his Boggart.

Death, meanwhile, had not left his side for a second. She draped herself over a chaise longue and lounged. Her wings retracted into her skeletal form and grotesquely she chattered into song.

The paintings of Malfoy Manor gained a voice.

Abraxas clutched onto the Death Stick like a child did a trusted adult's hand. He craned his neck to glance up at the brushwork. It was painted by the best artiste of France. Hyperion had paid. Hyperion had had _his_ painting destroyed by the same figure clicking her tongue derisively in the painting hanging above Abraxas.

''I see that you will not speak. Such a pity, Abraxas, even after I worked so hard on you. For a moment you showed promise, but I see I have been mistaken.''

''Promise?'' Abraxas' voice cracked.

''Yes.'' Yvette Malfoy answered. ''I see promise in you, Abraxas. Such beautiful promise and potential, yet you continue not to meet it on purpose. The water in your lungs will drown you if you do not drown the one poking holes in your dam.''

''I am tired of riddles.''

''Finally.''

Abraxas inhaled sharply. ''I relish in his killing you. If anything that is the one thing I will forever be grateful to him for.''

''He did not kill me. The worm feared my word as matriarch of a pureblood famille.'' It was a slip. She slipped back into French and continued in her language, dominating any conversation in it. ''Smart of him, truly. They do say you fall in love with your parents, so I should have been flattered you picked the smartest mudblood to harbour your affection.''

Abraxas continued in English, pissing his mother off on purpose. ''Voldemort is a halfblood.'' Obviously he did not pronounce the T. Some lengths even he would not reach to piss off his mother.

''I thought that didn't matter to you.'' Yvette shrugged in the portrait and enjoyed seeing Abraxas losing focus. ''Son, I thought that that Hermione Granger rooted the prejudice out of you.''

''She-''

''Let us be honest, Abraxas. Can you do that? Can you, for one moment in your life, look me in the eye and be honest? Not hateful, not blinded by an accident that should not have happened –'' Abraxas would forever remember that the only accident Yvette saw was in front of her, ''- can you?''

Abraxas raised the Death Stick. ''Speak your final words before I destroy you.''

''Were Tom Riddle not a halfblood you would not have cared about him. You would never have touched him, let alone loved him! Look at you! You think I am wrong; you still cling to the notion that whatever I say is false because you hate me. Be an adult, Abraxas, _grow up_! He is a genius, if unfortunately male and beneath you, he would have made an excellent bride to reign your impulsiveness in.''

''Stop it.'' Abraxas begged, angry, petulant, _right_. ''Stop trying to think I'll be fixed if you just find me someone proper to marry. Walburga was a disaster and by gods am I happy to have caught her snogging Orion in that broom closet in our sixth year. Ruined goods and bastards and all that,'' Abraxas did not mention how that was planned by all parties except Abraxas to get Yvette to annul the betrothal on basis of indecent behaviour and how hilariously enough that had worked. ''Antoinette!'' Abraxas screamed. ''Was an even bigger one because she was a _lesbian_! I had no idea what I was and you thrust this girl on me and told me- I do believe actually you _threatened_ me – that if I didn't make an heir for you to see and mould to perfection you'd – what, what was it you said – oh YES! You'd have me kissed by a Dementor because the presence of my mind was too infuriating for you.''

Yvette was not denying any of this, ''What a splendid heir you did make. He is everything you should have been. Is that why you resent him? Because you do, do not try to deny it.''

Abraxas Malfoy and Lucius Malfoy had a strained relationship. This was true. But the resentment was not aimed at Lucius. ''I resent you.'' Abraxas said. ''I resent you for caging me in a title that should not have been mine for a good fifty years more, at the very least.'' Hyperion was Lord Malfoy and no child ought to have such a burden. ''I resent you for forcing me into a loveless marriage with a spy to watch my every step and report back to you. It wasn't until I caught her in flagrante with Lilith Selwyn that she backed off. Blackmail is _such_ a GOOD pillar of marriage, wouldn't you say?'' Yvette's nose wrinkled distastefully at the words her son was spilling at her feet like a cesspool leakage. ''I resent you most of all for making me be a parent much before my time, for limiting my possibilities and forcing me into a role I still find I cannot fill. Every time he speaks I hear _you_. Every time he wants something I hear _your_ demands. Every time that he's ever wanted me to love him I think of how you didn't love me and why _should_ he be loved? **I never wanted this**.''

''Abraxas,'' Yvette was craning her neck and trying to get Abraxas' attention, but he disallowed her.

''What did love prepare me for? Tom Riddle grew up without it and he's **fucked**. I grew up with a taste of it and I'm _beyond_ **_fucked_**. Lucius found someone to love him even if I found I didn't want to, that I couldn't. Antoinette found someone to love her when she saw I was a lost cause and our preferences did not match. _Walburga_ found someone to love her when I really, really personally did not want to! _When is **my** turn? When do _I _get to be loved?_ ''

Abraxas was waving the Death Stick and clinging to the other Hallows while barraging. The other paintings remained deathly silent. Yvette tried again, to talk over Abraxas, but he did not let her: ''I am not afraid of you anymore!''

''It is easy to not be afraid of the dead.''

''I will bring you back to kill you, don't think I won't.''Abraxas threatened. He wouldn't. Not if he was of clear mind and not now when he wasn't.

Death watched, her expression _zealous_. Her wings fluttered and knocked over a vase. When it broke to pieces Abraxas laughed, noticing the stricken expression on his mother's painting. ''Afraid, are you? Tell me, how do I look in your eyes now? Am I still that disappointment?'' Abraxas wondered why he still cared about her opinion and if he will forever be stuck caring about it on some level.

''I see myself in you.'' Yvette said as a final twist of a knife lodged deep in Abraxas' heart. ''You did not turn out how I wanted you, but you are _my_ son. The way you treat Lucius is how I treated you, this is something I saw. Did you think you were – getting back at me? By trying to uphold my values? Sad little boy, you are my blood.''

''It always comes down to blood.'' Abraxas said, unnerved and resigned. He lowered the wand.

''Yes. Blood is everything.''

''Blood means nothing to me anymore.'' Abraxas said and showed her the Hallows.

''Blood is thicker than water, Abraxas, do not be foolish. You are Hyperion's blood, too. Will you discard your father's blood, the blood of your ancestors?'' The paintings rustled in their seats and watched the patriarch of their family, observed the way his shoulders sagged in submission to his mother's words. But then they saw his lips pull back to reveal teeth barred in scorn. They watched him raise his eyes to the not-silver of his mother. They squirmed in their portraits and the fairy portraits clapped. Once. Twice. Thrice.

The fairy portraits had never made sound, even before the spell of silence Abraxas had cast. They hummed and they sang and the magic swirled around them all. Abraxas heard gasps cascading from portrait to portrait. His white hair curled from magic and the lung razing cough that threatened him was choked down with great effort. Tears pricked to the side of his eyes. Yvette Malfoy did not beg for clemency, well aware that she would not be granted it.

Abraxas swished the Death Stick and said: ''Then so be it. With your blood coursing through my veins I will gladly be a blood traitor.''

He slashed the throat of the portrait and then continued, using slicing hex after slicing hex to cut the portrait into incoherent ribbons. Finally he sent a simple augamenti spell to finish it off. Yvette would hate knowing a first year spell had been her portrait's demise.

''This explains a lot, actually.'' Narcissa's voice spoke up finally. Abraxas swirled around and saw her standing at the doorframe. She held a wand in one hand and the other she used to hold herself upright by the chaise Death lounged in still.

Abraxas saw spots littering his vision. ''Narcissa, what are you doing here-'' he attempted to ask, but promptly fell unconscious, drained from the Hallows, and the confrontation, and the ever present illness continuously making his life hard.

* * *

January 2nd 1999

Narcissa heard Abraxas thud to the ground and walked over to the body of her father-in-law. She felt a pulse and divested him of his cloak, and this new wand, and the ring.

Death appeared to her in her most honest design. ''Hello, Narcissa.''

Narcissa was afraid. The wand pulled, the ring squealed, and the cloak weighed her down. ''Is my son alive?'' She had to know.

''Yes, Draco Malfoy is not dead.'' Being petrified was being neither here nor there.

''Where is he?''

''Wait and you shall see.'' Death cryptically answered. That ransom letter ought to be coming in soon. Owls were very impractical post carriers.

Narcissa twisted the wand and said: ''That is not good enough.''

Death found her voice was lost except when she answered Narcissa's question. ''Greece. On an island hidden by magic, surrounded by mermaids.'' There was a pleased glint in Narcissa's eyes at the last bit.

''Who has dared take my son from me?''

Death wilfully tried to ignore this question and say Lockhart, but she inferred the true meaning of Narcissa's interrogation and submitted. ''Alexio. Before you ask me to kill him, know that he wants nothing but your money. He is no threat to you and your family.''

''Rescue my husband from Azkaban.''

''That's already being handled.'' Death explained Walburga Black's and Abraxas' plan.

Narcissa's eyes widened gracelessly when she heard that her aunt had returned from the dead. When she heard that Abraxas had returned from the dead, too, and **– _''He killed whom?''_**

She turned back to the unconscious form of her father-in-law and cursed: ''Fuck.'' Then again because there was nobody there to hear her except Death and a bunch of unimportant paintings: ''FUCK.''

The wand pulled and the ring begged and the cloak tightened its hold over Narcissa and, having found out all of the information she needed right now, she shed all three and went to gather supplies while her father-in-law rested. A better daughter-in-law may have levitated him into a bed, but the mermaid lake of her dreams twisted her into not helping him. Were he a better person she'd feel ashamed of herself. Neither of them were good people, though.

Narcissa set forth to rebuild the wards in her image; there hadn't been a Mistress of the Wards in a very long time.

* * *

January 3rd 1999

Abraxas awoke to find that a ransom letter had arrived finally with an exhausted and bitter owl that bit Narcissa when she tried to pry the letter from its beak.

Narcisaa, ready to get her son, get her husband from her aunt's clutches, and keep them close to her side forever, said. ''A man named Alexio has taken Draco for ransom. He is on a hidden island in Greece.''

''Okay.'' Abraxas said. ''How much does he want?''

''I am not giving him a knut.'' Narcissa said. She handed the Hallows to Abraxas. He accepted them without a word. Abraxas would rather not think about the implications of Narcissa Black wielding the Hallows or the fact that she had enough character to recede the offer.

''How do you expect us to even get there if you – '' Abraxas stopped to cough up blood. He glanced over to Death who had returned by his side. This illness was becoming truly unfortunate. He fished out from his robe pocket a bracelet with horcrux charms and thought that after he returned from this adventure he would get down to business to get himself a cure.

Narcissa pricked her finger, grabbed Abraxas' hand with the clean hand, and pressed the bloodied one on the ransom letter. The portkey activated

* * *

Andreas rarely had any contact with the man on the hidden island. This was why he nearly had a heart attack when a letter found him in the early hours of January 3rd. It was written in simple lines that looked not the least bit messy: _I am hungry. Get me all of the food you can carry. _The word hungry was circled and underlined five times. _Do not worry about the sirens, just show them the letter._

For the second time this month Andreas got in his dingy boat and prepared to go to the island. When he saw a man and a woman appear out of thin air he did not feel like he was paid enough to stand around on call for Alexio.

''Excuse me!'' the man, Abraxas Malfoy, greeted him with a wave. ''May we ask for your services?''

''How much you offering?'' Might as well make a profit. The sum Abraxas Malfoy gave had Andreas nearly keeling over.

On their way across the Ionian Sea the woman (Narcissa Malfoy) was deliberately trying to attract the sirens. She dug around her purse and threw blood slathered meat into the sea. Very quickly the creatures arrived to feed. One of them greeted Narcissa in English: ''Hello.''

Narcissa returned it in the Language of Water because she knew that everyone preferred to speak in their native tongue: ''Hello. Are you loyal to this Alexio person?''

The sirens neared Narcissa with apt and keen interest now that she'd spoken to them properly. ''He's all right.''

''Is he?''

''We wouldn't miss him,'' they answered Narcissa and she emptied out her bag full of meats. They feasted in garbled water and Andreas looked just about ready to faint from the smell and the abrupt realisation that that could be him.

In gratitude the mermaids pushed their boat so they disembarked on the safe side of the island. ''Usually everyone goes the long way. Calm sea!'' The sirens wished Narcissa good luck and went under.

Abraxas whispered: ''I suppose I can revisit the mermaid lake.''

''Go to Hell, Abraxas.'' Narcissa said in the same voice she would tell someone that they were having shrimp as a side dish. ''When we return I'll expect you to apologise to Lucius.''

Abraxas looked struck, but that hurt swirled into petulant obstinacy. ''Let us first get Draco back to the Manor.''

''Let us,'' coolly Narcissa agreed.

Andreas sweated as he tried to heave crates from the boat and onto land.

''What's with all of the food?'' Abraxas cast levitation charms on the crates Andreas was trying to carry. Andreas told them that he was delivering this food to Alexio. He showed them the letter and when the handwritings were compared the letter in Narcissa's hand looked like it was written by a man with no eyes. That could be because it was. And the letter in Andreas' hand was written neatly.

Before they could question this the party heard a startled scream not far from them. Narcissa swirled into action, unsheathing her wand and aiming. Abraxas followed right after. Andreas had no wand to use, what with him being a squib. But he did pray for protection under his breath and sometimes that helped him stay calm. Sometimes. Not this time.

The noise came from a hole being dug in the island. Abraxas and Narcissa approached warily. They heard hissing from the forested part of the island. It was low rumbling that was felt in bones. Narcissa found herself incapable of moving. Abraxas could place that rumbling, he could place the way this being coiled around the earth powerfully and spoke.

Similar hissing emerged from the hole, except this one was annoyed.

Abraxas pushed himself to go and see who was in the hole. It was parseltongue and he'd become attuned to differentiating between when a human spoke it and when a snake did. There was a difference in pitch and overall delivery. Nagini spoke in a more refined articulation than Tom – Voldemort did. He really ought to stop calling him Tom. The man didn't like being called that and he should finally do him the courtesy of calling him by his chosen name.

There were a lot of things Abraxas needed changing about himself. Screaming when spotting the man inside the hole was not one of them. Then the man screamed back, startled during a ritual, his hands went to cover his face: ''I'm hideous! Don't look at me! I haven't even gauged my eyes out yet – please – please, _turn away_!''

''Mr. Alexio, I got your food!''

''Oh!'' Alexio lowered his hands and Abraxas saw that blood was smeared across his face. ''Oh I had just resorted to eating myself. Good timing, Andreas!'' His red eyes fell on Abraxas Malfoy and they narrowed. ''Persephone give me patience.'' Then he rubbed his eyes and cursed in parseltongue. He remembered himself : ''I hate having eyes ! I've always got to put my eye drops and doing that takes out ten minutes every day – ten minutes that I could be using for something else !''

''Eye drops?'' Narcissa finally spoke.

''So the basilisk eyes don't kill me.'' Alexio turned to Narcissa and smiled. ''Hello, beautiful lady.''

Narcissa remembered her training as a pureblood lady and smiled back. His eyes were the same kind of red as Tom Riddle's. Interesting, she thought. ''Hello, sir.''

Abraxas stared meanwhile still at half eaten corpse in the hole. It looked identical to Alexio, except that it had no eyes where Alexio had two crimson ones. Alexio, the one walking around, had no snake puncture wounds on his neck, either. And the dead body looked much older.

''Who is this?'' Abraxas gestured to the corpse, feeling bile and hearing the rumble continuously growing closer.

''Tis I!'' Alexio said and struck a pose. Then he unstruck the pose and went to open the crates to gorge on the food. Each time he took a bite he would moan and feast more. ''I apologise,'' he said with his mouth stuffed full, ''but getting killed and resurrected makes me hungry.''

''Killed?'' Narcissa jotted down that he could return from the dead.

''Mhm.'' Alexio sneered. ''Those snakes with feet.'' Abraxas knew that this was a bad translation between parseltongue and English, it seemed that the man didn't know English well enough to speak it directly. ''Dying is tiring. I did not die in thousand years. It was shocking to die.''

Narcissa was just about to demand where her son was when the rumbling reached its peak.

''Ah, my dearest.'' Alexio sprang up to his feet to greet the basilisk. ''My first. My most beloved. I behove you to take a look at the first ever bred basilisk. Isn't she wonderful? 5 kilometres long!''

Narcissa turned to Abraxas and asked: ''Is that thing in Hogwarts?''

Abraxas held the Hallows, and even though he was Master of Death, felt no comfort in his life. ''No,'' he found his voice, ''of course not, Narcissa. Beatrice is a baby compared to this.''

''My beautiful child!'' Alexio was trying to hug the basilisk, who hissed and sounded like the biggest apex predator in the world that was melting at the praise. ''You came to check up on me, sweetling! My darling girl!''

Abraxas had to sit down. Narcissa sat down with him and stared at the basilisk with closed eyes. ''Abraxas, what did we get ourselves into?''

''Chaos?'' Abraxas said questioningly.

Death sat down on Abraxas' left and had the fondest expression aimed at Alexio. Abraxas understood some things then. Not enough of them, because no one ever understood enough things when they needed to – but it was beginning to be enough. He leaned forward to Narcissa and asked her to plan something with him. She decided to humour him.


	35. Get Wrecked Alexio: Side TMR

January 2nd 1999

Death wasn't omniscient. Well, she was – but only if she well and truly _looked_. Due to her incredibly busy schedule and usually indifferent nature she had little time to focus on an individual being and look into their life's history and unfolding.

For Alexio she made an exception. After all, he _was_ the first to challenge her domain by refusing to enter it.

Tom Riddle translated between Merrythought and Alexio. Nagini bared her fangs at him, but he continued to hiss insults at the three of them. His arms crossed and he laughed at their plunder and continued calling them ignorant of the facts he was aware of. ''Oh how the mighty have fallen, eh, Voldemort? Eh eh!'' Then to Nagini he hissed in parseltongue and she would have lunged for him had Tom Riddle not captured her with his hands and pressed her to his chest.

Merrythought's lips pursed in that simple way ones usually did when they tried to bite their tongue silent because the person insulting her was a necessity. Alexio's berating of Tom Riddle's ingeniously stupid horcrux creation left the younger immortal stoic and calm. It showed that he had experience working in retail and keeping his mouth shut. Though, well, Nagini had bared her venomous fangs and was staring intently at Alexio's neck.

 _Well_. Death mused, abuzz with magic and the arcane powers that shaped her as much as she used them to shape the world. _I always knew his mouth would get him finally undone._

* * *

Merrythought crossed over to the eyeless man first, putting effort in her movements so she didn't accidentally smash into one of his many, many eerily realistic statues of horrified people. Behind her she could see Tom trying to calm Nagini, who was lashing out with her tail and hitting him in the face with it.

Whether Alexio could hear whatever they talked about he didn't let on. His skin was very thin and veins prominently flared when he grabbed hold of Merrythought's wrist tightly. ''Come. We must finish this.'' His hand slipped until he was prying off her wedding ring and bringing it to his ear to hear her magic. ''Both of you illiterate.'' He spoke again and shuffled towards a cave.

''Lad,'' Tom looked up from his heated argument with Nagini, ''if I don't come back you mind avenging me?''

''You aren't going to tell me to be the bigger person and run away to tell your loved ones of your demise?''

 _''Nah_.'' She fanned that idea away and grimaced in exaggeration.

Tom cracked a smile. Nagini's tail slapped him. Merrythought, from her limited interaction with Nagini, had to say that she'd never before seen her so angry.

She trailed after Alexio and watched him navigate his home without any problems. He must be very used to things being as they are, Merrythought mused. He led her to a flat rock to lie on and Merrythought did, finding it too much effort to ask questions about every single thing he did. Alexio leaned above her and had she not faced terrible sights in Faerie, she would have been creeped out by the empty eye sockets staring directly into her torn soul.

Between his fingers he played with Merrythought's horcrux. ''When you made it, indulge me, what source did you use?''

''There's more than one?'' Merrythought had only read the English book of dark magic. Spells most foul or whatever it had been called.

Alexio's lips twitched. His fingers stopped twirling her ring and set it down on Merrythought's forehead. Next he pressed hard, as if reprimanding Merrythought. She hissed in pain, but made no move to attack him.

''You didn't read my tablets.''

''I did not.''

''That wasn't a question.'' Alexio sneered. He grumbled and gave up on his punishment, letting go of the ring and moving around, finding himself indescribably angry to be in Merrythought's uncultured presence. ''Obviously you did not read them. They are the only source truly accurate of the horcrux creating process. Every other translation loses sense and is dangerous.''

''That's unfortunate.'' Merrythought asked how that could be, why hadn't Alexio made translations himself.

''Bad things happen to people who make translations and spread word of my horcrux method of immortality. Death does not like immortals, as you've seen.''

Merrythought remembered the chill, the terror, the absolute finality oozing off of the creature.

''I'd like my soul fixed, thank you.'' She gave Alexio a grin.

''Peh.'' Alexio harrumphed. ''Everyone always comes to me for fixing or to take back their loved ones who trespassed. Never to come say hello. Never to ask Alexio, how are you? No, no just to ask things of me. You know I used to do these things for free. People said that they could help me by exposing my expertise and services with words. Not anymore! Oh no no no! If you want my help _pay up_!''

Merrythought wisely said nothing. She just made approving noises.

He picked up the ring again and placed it over Merrythought's heart. ''Hold this here.'' Merrythought did. ''Don't talk to me.'' Merrythought didn't dare. ''Just stay still.'' Was not a problem. ''Last time I did this person's brain got fried so just – uh – don't think too loudly.'' Merrythought's thoughts were flaring like police sirens.

''Ready?'' Alexio asked.

''Aye, let's get it over with.'' She said, but her mind desperately screamed _NO_!

* * *

Tom and Nagini were walking through passages and passages of Alexio's petrified victims. The basilisks were minding their own business, listening for their master's call for action. Like trained pets they remained in waiting.

'' _Do you think it would be rude if I asked him if he was Medusa?''_ Tom idly wondered, still lugging around Nagini, who was draped across his shoulders.

'' _He wasn't, but she was one of his parselmouth clients. He'll charge you if you so much as breathe in his direction, let alone ask him a question.''_

Tom's brows furrowed at the venom seeping from Nagini's hisses. _''As someone who is very well known for his passive aggression, you think me incapable of noticing it in you?''_

Nagini simply said that she was wrong to think she could handle seeing Alexio and this place again.

'' _Why?''_

Nagini told him.

* * *

Alexio was considered an urban legend for all parselmouths at the time. A cryptic creature, unseen by many an eye. One that was only ever revealed to the worthy.

Nagini followed the sounds of distress and snake related attacks which led her to a hidden island in Greece. By the time she actually got to him her form was sweating from exertion both physical and psychological. Her fingers curled into tight fists to stop herself from turning back. Breathing in and then out Nagini moved towards the eyeless figure that had come out to greet her. He had a stick (not a wand, it was like four or six wands taped together in a tall stick) and he was waving said stick around very imperiously.

'' _Get off of my island!''_

Easily enough Nagini slipped into her native tongue: _''Kind sir, I hope that you could help me-''_

'' _No! Go away!''_ He turned around and began to leave.

Nagini surged with all of her remaining strength for him, grasping hold of his robe and bringing it to her chest, tears in her already shifting reptilian eyes: _''Please! I – I heard that you could help me. There is word of a cure for my ailment. I tracked these whispers to you. Please, there are stories and songs of your wonderful magic and how you've always helped parselmouths in need-''_

'' _And what GOOD did it give me?''_ Alexio shouted, surprising both Nagini and himself. He shoved her away. _''The more I age the less I think that people deserve me.''_

Nagini was not entirely sure what she did to deserve Alexio's change of heart happening exactly when she needed his help, but for the sake of letting him talk and being polite she let this continue. Maybe he would come to a conclusion that helping others was good-

'' _The more I think about my life the more I come to terms that all I've ever been doing for others has been to get some sort of points for doing a good deed – but I'm sick of that! I'm done! The only points I want to accumulate from now on are money! So unless you've got a lot of money on you right now, sweet snake, I couldn't care less about your predicament.''_ Nagini patted her pockets and knew that the most she could hope for was to buy a lunch with it. Her skin prickled from fingers melded into her hands and disappeared. In and then out in and then out. Nagini shook.

'' _The last time I did something for somebody for free it was for my apprentice and she's dead and she never returned that basilisk egg I lent her and she can fuck off! You,''_ Nagini was growing more and more worried that Alexio was not going to help her. Her stomach hurt and her insides burned and her bones melted as her own body began to betray her, shifting her into a snake. _''You –where oh – oh there you are now.''_ He tapped her with his foot to check where she was. Her magic itself had shifted and thrown him off balance _._

'' _Is this the maledictus? I thought you'd come by for a horcrux fix.''_

'' _A what?''_

'' _Never mind. Yes, I have a cure for this.''_ Alexio shoved a hand into his robe pocket and he rummaged around it for a few minutes, taking things out and returning them when he realised it wasn't what he was looking for. In the end he took out a small bottle and dangled it above Nagini. _''A few drops of this and that's it.''_

Nagini waited, expectantly.

Alexio tossed the bottle in the air leisurely and when it dropped back in his palm he squeezed out a question from his wide and mean grin: ''How much are you willing to offer?''

'' _Everything.''_ Nagini slithered closer, eyeing the cure like a feverish wraith. _''Anything you want of me.''_

'' _I want for nothing.''_ Alexio said. He returned the bottle into his pocket and clarified: _''How much money can you offer me?''_

Nagini said her price and when Alexio laughed quickly added that she was willing to work until her debt to him was paid. Desperately she slithered closer and fought against her nerves. Hisses sounded around her now that she was losing Alexio's interest. Hisses that said she was free game.

From her snake perspective Alexio towered above her like a god playing with puny beings for his own amusement and benefit. _''Please, don't be heartless-''_

In rapid speed he strode back towards her and even came close to smashing her skull with his harsh steps. ''Heartless, you call me! Are you a slave?'' Nagini sputtered no. He laughed. _''Ha! Of course you're not. That system has been abolished for a long time. Tell me, are you a peasant in a feudalistic system of power?''_ Nagini said no, shrinking under herself. Alexio raised his hands in the air and cast shadows over her. Like this she felt so small and weak. Like this she felt like her voice could not be heard.

'' _But haven't you ever felt helpless? Haven't you ever wanted someone to help you in your time of need?''_

'' _I have.''_ Alexio said, smiling. _''No one helps the helpless. I used to try, but what good did it do me? Medusa ended up destroyed for only asking me to aid her to protect herself. Dead, that one. So many dead because of my meddling.''_

Nagini thought that maybe the cold was thawing around Alexio's heart and she tried one last appeal: _''I will go mad like this. Surely that is worse than death?''_

Alexio looked to her, even without his eyes, and said: _''There is nothing worse than being dead.''_

'' _Why do you draw the line now?''_ Nagini hissed. _''What do you have against me to choose not to help me?''_

'' _It's nothing personal, sweet snake. I'm just tired of being a slave to you people. First it was the Greeks that razed my parselmouth village and sold us across Athens and Sparta, scattering us away from loved ones. Then it was the muggle Christians chasing after me with the mages. But the worst came from the parselmouths who took and took and only continued to take from me with only a thanks as payment. Does my research flourish on thanks? No! I only offered my services to parselmouths **in need** – but the pogroms have long since passed. The snake hunts and trials have ceased. Parselmouths are allowed to hold jobs and have their own money. Why shouldn't I make a living off of my services?''_ Nagini had no answer _. ''Now scurry along before I make you into an exhibit to sell. Had I put some more effort into my statues –''_ Nagini saw the terrified people screaming, forever trapped in a state of horror, _''—I may have even beaten Michelangelo. Who knows.''_ He shrugged.

'' _I beg.''_

'' _You beg fruitlessly.''_

Alexio waved her off and said that if she found herself incapable of shifting back to a human he could get her safe passage to Egypt. One of his food suppliers was going there and would take her. Nagini, left with no other choice, acquiesced.

* * *

'' _I found you in Egypt not long after that.''_ Nagini whispered. She looked down at Tom's feet and hatefully hissed insults for Alexio. _''I hoped he would change his mind.''_

Tom arranged Nagini to be around his throat like a scarf and curled his fingers inward. ''I'll change it for him. I promise you this.''

'' _He is ancient.''_ Nagini warned, but her tone was hopeful. In a new light she regarded Tom. In a kinder light she saw him. For her he was an immortal alike Alexio, but she could see something bright shining from out of the cracks lining his façade. Something worth believing in.

On their way out of the statue maze they wound up stumbling upon a young boy in a green robe. For most of the statues the clothes remained un-petrified and billowing with the wind, tearing with age, and fading under the sun. Tom knelt to see the boy's eyes. They were the same colour as the rest of him – that stony silver. But the visage and the overall framing of his face could not be mistaken. This was Narcissa and Lucius' son. This was Walburga Black's spawn. With those aristocratic genes, that ancient blood coursing through his cold veins. Tom tilted his own head to examine him further. Yes, this was Abraxas' grandson. They had the same nose.

Tom dug into his own robe's pocket and fished out a see-through vial labelled AM. He'd only managed to save one and for the life of him he couldn't remember from which compartment he'd gotten it from. Either way, it would be better for Abraxas to take the vial than to live on in agony.

For better or for worse he knew that Abraxas would not rest until reuniting with his grandson. He was easily attached like that. Gently he put the vial into Draco's robe pocket and stood upright. Nagini hissed: _''Finally you act your age and do the right thing.''_

''From your tale I find that aging has nothing to do with doing the right thing.''

This was true. Old people often did terrible things. It was the self-aware that did the right thing. And for the first time in his life Tom Riddle found himself in a position where he could have time to become aware of himself.

* * *

Once out of the maze they saw Merrythought hobbling. Alexio assisted her in walking, but she was merrily singing songs in Gaelic and hugging him. ''Thank Death for making you fix my soul up! I promise never to make another horcrux again! Death is the most beautiful thing ever!'' For the next few exclamations Merrythought's sentences ended on an exclamation point.

Alexio was trying his very best to usher her into Tom Riddle's arms and tell him to take her and leave. Just as he was about to do that, Tom decided to grab hold of Alexio's wrist and ground him steady. Gently flickers of currant lolled off from Tom's body onto Alexio's.

Rustling of birds flying off from trees and snakes falling off of said trees were all indication that Alexio was screaming with gut-wrenching intensity. He collapsed to his knees and clutched onto the hand, trying to pry it off. His magic attacked Tom's, but Tom's was much stronger. It was more controlled than that of a two thousand year old hermit slowly descending into insanity.

''I presume it is not nice to feel so powerless and at another's mercy?'' Tom mused through the cruciatus infliction. Alexio couldn't quite find the articulation necessary for a comeback as he was too busy crying out in pain. This didn't stop Tom from continuing leisurely with his speech: ''Nagini and I have some demands. Firstly you're not charging the professor as it was an honour for her to grace your presence, let alone allow you anywhere near her soul you filthy, disgusting, power hungry vermin.'' Alexio was nodding – or was his head bobbing from the pain? Tom demanded a verbal answer.

It came in parseltongue in forms of threats: ''Heed this warning _boy_ –'' the cruciatus intensified and Alexio got lost in waves of anguish, his mind drawing up blanks.

''Ease up on him!'' Merrythought shouted. The land beneath them shook, tied together with Alexio's magic. This was his home and it was full of basilisks willing to take a long and satisfying look of their food. ''Lad – _Tom_!'' She shoved him away, breaking contact between Alexio and Tom's magics.

Alexio curled into himself like he was a snake. Nagini hissed and Tom hissed back.

Merrythought didn't know how to feel about seeing this side of Tom. Of course, theoretically she knew that Tom had been Voldemort and had committed those crimes. But it was one thing to know and another altogether to see.

''Give it.'' Tom said in rare English and returned to parseltongue, finding it powerful to connect back to his ancestry, to find some purpose. To hold a conversation with someone who was not a snake. ''Hand it over to Nagini and I'll let you go.''

Alexio uncurled painfully and shakily put a hand over his pocket. He hissed a spell to summon the bottle and handed it over. His body was covered in cold sweat and the after effects of the cruciatus formed over him with shakes and unrelenting tremors. He gritted his teeth in a sneer and hissed through his teeth, in broken English for everyone present to hear: ''Six horcruxes cannot be helped. What of your mind remains is the most you can hope for. Gaps in your memory? Always cold, are you? Feverish with delusion? Slower than before? That is the **_most_**.'' Alexio ungritted his teeth to laugh. ''Even if I want to help you I cannot. Go now. Help your friend. But you I will see… You will become me.''

Tom took the proffered bottle and handed it to Merrythought, telling her to aid Nagini while he dealt with this man.

Without Merrythought there to listen, Alexio switched back into parseltongue: _''Your empty threats mean nothing to me.''_

'' _Empty? Whoever said they were empty? Your hubris is your greatest enemy and one there is no return from. You would need a god's boon to help you back. What little soul you have I advise you covet._ '' Then a wide grin. _''You can hurt me however much you like, but in the end it'll only inconvenience me whereas it will show your helplessness. For this act of violence against me I shall not retaliate by sending the basilisk on you or your party as Death herself stays my hand, but know that you have lost me as your potential ally – and for what? Some snake! Six was too many, boy.''_

'' _Stop calling me that.''_

'' _To me you're a child, and one that will grow older than everyone you know all while trying to piece yourself together –but your own soul will disallow it. You botched it. I blame it on bad translations and youthful élan clouding your judgement. **I am your inevitability**.''_

Tom unsheathed his wand and aimed it at his throat. _''I will finish you.''_

'' _Do it.''_ Alexio said. _''I cannot die. You will only inconvenience me and tear your wand with an unforgivable deed. Wands remember what their masters make them do.''_

His yew wand, after a time, had quarrelled with him. Tom did not know whether to pace himself or attack with his acacia wand. Luckily for him he didn't need to. A hand on his shoulder alerted him to another's presence and when he turned to see it Tom balked.

It was Nagini's snake eyes, but she was no more a snake than Tom was in his body.

''This is the closest I can be human. It is enough for me.'' She whispered in English and what a melodic voice she had. Calm and peaceful and nothing how Tom expected it. He'd never expected to hear Nagini speak in a language other than parseltongue. She lowered Tom's wand and hugged him, whispering only faintly: ''Thank you.''

Merrythought, in the background, was making odd facial gestures about the situation as she, herself, had not been briefed on Nagini's predicament. ''The snake is a HUMAN?!''

''Ha. If I knew you looked like this I may have actually helped you when you asked.'' Alexio said, but Nagini didn't let him talk. She transformed halfway into a snake and surged, sinking her venomous fangs deep into Alexio's throat. Once he fell and his gaze turned hazy, Nagini returned to human form.

''I curse you, Alexio.'' She said. ''I curse you so the next person to step on your island and greet you will destroy you for good.'' The venom burned in Alexio's veins. His body withered and twitched and awareness left from his magic. Nagini finished with this: ''I curse you so when you are helpless help does not come from the one you beg.''

As Alexio's consciousness drifted away he heard Tom Riddle say: ''So mote it be.''

* * *

Death watched as Tom Riddle, Merrythought, and Nagini scrambled to get off of the island as quickly and safely as possible. They looked like rats running away from a flood. It was amusing, until quickly she grew bored and went towards the great basilisk laying about on the beach. Inside her mouth Death found a stone inscribed with runes that glowed.

And from it burst forth Alexio. Her Alexio.

The basilisk opened her mouth and Alexio stepped out, rubbing at his eyes and cursing his form. This was what immortality looked like. Death was not a fan. Especially not when Alexio pointed at her and shouted: ''You stalled my hand! I could have killed them – or rendered that one incapacitated. But you made me not to. I helped Merrythought, but as I said to Riddle _six was too many to help_.''

''Of course.'' Death moved around Alexio, circling him. He pointedly avoided looking at her with his eyes. ''Ah.'' She glowed. ''Do I still look like _him_ when you look at me with those crimson eyes of yours, Alexio?''

Alexio stalked away towards where his discarded body lay to dig it into the ground for nature to feed on. ''Nagini cursed me.''

''She cursed the body.''

''No, she cursed me. All of me.''

''What do you want me to do about it, Alexio? Don't tell me you're afraid of a snake's revenge?''

Alexio's eyes landed on Death and in her place he saw Socrates, his former master. ''Do something. Anything.''

Socrates – Death scoffed. ''There. I scoffed. My dear Alexio, you are a wizard. So you have been cursed – uncurse yourself.''

Alexio did not know how to speak that he could _feel_ the curse on his soul. That the venom had buried deep within his consciousness and his blood and his essence and remained there. He found his tongue cut off like he'd cut Socrates' when he'd fed him a watered down basilisk venom that had left him paralysed. He'd said it was hemlock poison. He'd lied, and not for the last time.

''Promise not to take me.''

Slowly: ''I _cannot_ take you. You have a horcrux.'' Death peered at him. Socrates' eyes stared into Alexio's. Having eyes and having that link of legilimency open to the world made him feel naked and vulnerable.

Alexio didn't dare think about the possibility where the curse could bypass his own magic. He could feel the strength of Nagini's words and the finality she poured into them. It was old mage magic, not one done with a wand. ''If you feel it is so irrational, why won't you humour me?'' He looked away.

''You forget what I am, Alexio. I am not a wizard's fanciful companion to humour his mortal behaviours. ''

''I am not mortal and I am not so easily destroyed.''

''Good.'' Death said. She clapped her hands. ''Then I have to return to Abraxas. Until tomorrow!''

She dissolved and left Alexio alone. His new stomach churned. ''Gods I am famished.''


	36. Get Wrecked Alexio: Side AHM

January 3rd 1999

Narcissa Black's first memory was being told she was beautiful. Her aunt Walburga thought she was the prettiest of her sisters. Later she would realise it was one of her games to pit sister against sister and see which was the most magically powerful. Before realising that, though, she boasted the praise and relished in the comments.

She was young when she realised that men would do lots of things for her because of her beauty. Not very young, but young nonetheless. Her ancestors used unforgivables and did terrible things in order to strive and thrive. But Narcissa didn't. Not because it was wrong, simply because she had never had any need for it. Bellatrix was the first to use an unforgivable, but Andromeda was the first to do something terrible by agreeing to renounce her family.

Not little baby Cissa.

The same Cissa who had salt water under her fingernails and a mind full of dark things lurking just beneath the water's surface.

She walked through life on a road paved with her Old Money gold and her New Season robes and her Always Chic appearance. But just behind her eyes rested a mind barred from anyone's entry.

Her Aunt Walburga always said: ''You're the prettiest of your sisters, Cissa, dear niece of mine. But heed these words,''

Narcissa walked up to Alexio and put on a smile and sprang into action a maze littering her surface with socialite's dreams, and a worried mother's anthem, and a young girl's love for the unknown and fantastical.

''Never let anyone except a Black know what it is you are thinking in that pretty and dull head of yours.''

Narcissa remembered wrinkling her nose at the insult: ''I am not dull.''

Walburga had knocked her head back and laughed, clapping her hands together in a concerto of condescension. She stopped laughing after a time and placed a manicured finger to Narcissa's nose, whispering: ''Of course not, darling, but that's a weapon your mother is too daft to teach you.'' Then, hateful (her aunt was always so hateful): ''This simply proves that some are not meant to contribute to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.''

Her aunt had stood and left, leaving Narcissa to her lessons.

* * *

Alexio warily stepped away from Narcissa's nearing stride. She toned it down and gave him a smile, twiddling her thumbs on her robe's seams. His crimson eyes landed on her cold, lukewarm, warm warm _warm_ and beautifully approachable eyes as she chipped away at his defences: Discombobulating confusion. Hatred – not at her or Abraxas or her son or her family. Pain. Annoyance. Death. Life. Rebirth. Lockhart. _Draco_.

Farther she went into his mind. Encroaching on things that he was not used to people seeing. It was like a lovely little stroll, one that she had perfected into people not noticing. Especially when he was so rattled to his core as to die and return anew.

Horcrux. Socrates. Ancient Greece. Parselmouth. Cruciatus. Curant. Curant. Curant.

Her gentle hold began to slip as the thoughts jumbled together, but it was enough. Then, because she had a classical education and one so finely tailored to her specific line of heritage, Narcissa spoke in Ancient Greek: ''It is an honour to meet a mage such as yourself, Alexio.'' After, she added a flattering curtsy.

Alexio blinked, dazed and blaming it on his poor motor control. His eyes sparked to life and his mouth quirked upwards in a wide, toothy smile. Narcissa reeled back her disdain at such a profound gesture. There was yet a photograph catching her in such a state of ill-fitting behaviour. Teeth? Nobody showed another that they had teeth. Especially not a lady.

Abraxas, as per agreement, slinked off into the forest of statues, each more terrified than the last.

Narcissa asked prettily: ''Could you perchance show me around? This is all so very, very exciting.''

Alexio praised her Greek. He said that she could do some work with the accent. Instead of flushing red in embarrassment and hot rage at this **_blackmailer_** saying **anything** about _her_ language skills, Narcissa inclined her head to agree and whispered: ''Won't you speak more to me then as practise?'' then, then, then, he offered his arm to her like some failing gentleman.

Narcissa accepted the arm.

Her smile crinkled her eyes and she laughed at the expected times, but the chill of Death trailed after them. Alexio took her on a tour, hissing at the snakes to make passage. They yielded to him and she wondered what it would be like to know parseltongue. She'd already collected all of the safe languages: English, French, Latin, Ancient Greek, and then branched off into unorthodox territory and learned the Language of Water.

But really, setting a snake on someone seemed like _too much fun._

Alexio was busy showing her some of his eye drops that disallowed Basilisk eyes to kill you when Narcissa asked if he had anything for understanding snakes.

''No, ah, no.''

Fair enough. Narcissa asked to sample the eye drops.

Alexio, having not had such beautiful attention bestowed upon him in a frighteningly long time, was quick to oblige. ''Two is enough.'' He said, still in their shared language. ''Two per eye. I will give you discount, mesmerizing apparition.''

''Thank you.'' Narcissa canted her head back and bit through the sting.

* * *

Abraxas moved through the statues. Some were clothed in sun faded robes and ripped clothes full of salt water whereas others were solely made of stone, sans modesty clothes afforded them. Abraxas' heart began to pick up speed when he couldn't find Draco right away. Surely he had to be around.

His hand moved over the Elder Wand desperately and Death showed herself in front of him, as if summoned. Probably was – Abraxas didn't have any clue how to be Master of Death.

''You called?''

A snake hissed and Abraxas misstepped and it nearly cost him his life. The jaws of the offended snake lunged for Abraxas' foot. He pivoted around and fell on his back, swishing his wand at the attacking snake and sliced it to pieces. More hissing: louder, angrier. A shiver ran a marathon through him, only stopping when the snake's shaking died to stillness.

One would think that spending so much time around Nagini would have taught him to look where he stepped. Snake tails were very sensitive.

Abraxas pulled himself on top of a rock to get a better view of the sea of statues, hidden behind shrubs and rocks and trees and snakes. His nerves grew and his teeth gritted and his hands curled into tight, vice-grip fists.

''I wish to talk.'' Abraxas inhaled and exhaled deeply. He closed his eyes, for just a single moment to spare himself the terror looking into Death's true form brought him.

''Then talk.'' She said. ''I'm listening.''

It was comforting to know that she was. In a sense it filled him with enough courage to continue. ''You hate Voldemort.''

''I am above hate.'' Death said. Abraxas didn't force his hand to make her tell him the truth. He did not rely on legilimency or body language; in fact he didn't care about such things to an obsessive degree everyone around him did. Let people hold their secrets. They were allowed them, for Merlin's sake.

''He was horrible to me.'' Abraxas said. It was tiring to put his whole life with Voldemort into spoken word, but he did: ''I said I would destroy him. I said so many things back in that nursery –that crime scene tailored as some prison for those poor unfortunate souls still left there. Rotting. But,'' He shakily continued, ''I cannot do that as I am. Look at that. Just small carelessness could have cost me my own life.''

''That is what humanity is: fragile and careless.''

Abraxas said nothing. He breathed another round to calm himself. Even with the Hallows and even with Death as his forced ally the illness coursed through him potently. He rubbed his hands across his face hard and groaned: ''I need insurance.''

''Of what?''

''That while Tom Marvolo Riddle breathes I will not die. Not by this illness, not by any external force, not by your whim.'' Abraxas' silver fairy eyes bore into Death's sockets in anticipation.

''What do you consider an _external force_?'' Death inched closer, her celestial robes billowing. She craned her skull to the side and from that angle it looked inhuman. ''What if someone cast a spell to make you kill yourself? Is that murder or is that suicide?'' Her teeth chattered.

Abraxas pulled himself out of her range. His breath came out visible when he breathed. ''That was uncalled for.''

''Nobby Leach would beg to differ.'' Death wore his face and his skin and his Ministry robes.

''Don't,'' softly, sadly, painfully. ''I live with it badly already.'' Abraxas looked frail and small for a man with power over Death. ''Please,'' he forgot that he could order instead of beg, ''aid me this once.''

The face of Nobby Leach slipped off like a something hot slid down ice.

''By your own hand.'' Death sneered. ''If you are serious about making a deal. You will not die by the illness, any external force, and your own hand while Tom Marvolo Riddle – I am Lord Voldemort lives.''

''Included in this are any other names he may be using.'' Abraxas coughed and wiped the blood with his robe's sleeve.

''Of course.'' Death said. She offered Abraxas her spindly hand to take and when they clasped together it was like shaking hands with jagged rocks that embedded uncomfortably in his flesh.

The result was instantaneous. Abraxas' silver eyes glowed and his magic burned when the deal between magic and something beyond crafted together. Death's chattering silenced and around them only buzzing rose and rose and rose and rose. Not even the infernal hissing of Basilisks could be heard breaching their headscapes.

Abraxas could not breathe easier because he still had the illness draped across his form, making him aware of his every movement. He couldn't move with ease because there were many snakes around that could incapacitate him. He couldn't even bring himself peace by electing to give up on life. No, he could force himself to go through with his life solely because there was no turning back. Death would not touch him until she first touched Voldemort.

Pushing himself off of his knees, Abraxas looked around. His surroundings focused into frame and now that he did not fear dropping dead at every corner he saw, right in front of him – just a few meagre metres away – his grandson's petrified form.

''DRACO!'' Abraxas yelled and scrambled to move, not caring for anything else. He could feel Death's lack of presence and it set him even more at ease. His grandson's faded green robe tipped him off that it was his grandson if the Walburga Black-ish facial structure didn't. That boy really looked too much like his Great Aunt when uncomfortable.

''Dear, dear Draco.'' Abraxas whispered. His hand moved to gently grasp the robe to feel that his grandson really was in front of him and not some illusionary magic cast to torment him. As he did this he felt something in Draco's robe's breast pocket. Tentatively Abraxas took it out and found a small, translucent vial labelled AM.

Hissing broke through the buzzing. Narcissa's beautiful voice turned hard as steel and a spell was shot, ricocheting off of statues. Abraxas gripped the vial and looked back to where his daughter-in-law had just decided to attack.

No, Abraxas rested firm with his beliefs, the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black was not one to think carefully for a very long time. When insulted they charged. Especially when a mother scorned had to play nice to a man that had taken her son from her.

They spoke in Greek still and Abraxas at a disadvantage because of it. He hid behind Draco's statue and watched, keenly aware of every rustle and raised voice. He spelled his white hair in a tight bun atop his head and leaned from behind the statue to take a better look.

Narcissa's wand was aimed at Alexio. She did not fear the murderous glint in the snakes' eyes. Abraxas would call that foolish if he wasn't aware that Narcissa would never be so foolish. She thought things through and must have found a way to bypass Alexio's greatest security.

Alexio's magic acted fast and he summoned a staff to his hands which he used as a spear to aim. Gritting his teeth and setting a dark, crimson gaze on Narcissa he spoke in a heated, but ultimately betrayed tone. His right shoulder was burning painfully with dancing fire. He drenched it with water and set forth to attack with rocks.

The whole island rattled. Statues nearest to Alexio glowed with his magic and slowly gained movement. He commanded them in parseltongue, this much Abraxas could tell. Was it parseltongue that made this possible because it was a Basilisk that had petrified them?

Death stood by Alexio's side. He glanced over to her and smiled. She didn't smile back, only looked at Narcissa intently. Knowingly.

Narcissa didn't balk at the statues. She looked them over cooly and set forth a barrage of spells, branching off and destroying them.

Alexio said some things and Narcissa's greek was exhausted because she replied in brisk English: ''It is better for them to die than to exist another day like this!''

''Murdere _ss_.'' The s elongated and Alexio wielded the staff to send more statues at Narcissa.

Abraxas looked away to the AM vial. The handwriting was not familiar because Abraxas didn't want it to be. Because Abraxas didn't want to know the implications of this. Because Abraxas didn't want to think about the only person who found small vials aesthetically pleasing; who found snakes the best company; who spoke parseltongue; who would kill to go and meet people like the deranged dark arts master flinging statues and snakes at Narcissa's formidable self.

She moved through spells, not like her sister did during war, but neither like a beginner.

Abraxas moved to fight with her when he felt hands grab his shoulders from behind. Turning around, Abraxas let out a loud screech. Draco had been animated by the spell and was wrestling Abraxas to the ground. There was an ocean full of spells that Abraxas could use which would take care of this problem - but he very much preferred to keep Draco intact. That was where the tricky part began.

Draco's heavy fists smashed right next to Abraxas' head, shattering the ground with its potency.

''OK, well, wonderful. Genial. C'est tres bien.'' Abraxas put his hands up and forced some of his magic to hold back Draco's next, more accurately aimed attack. Being made of stone and wielded by a usually blind man had to have some drawbacks with precision.

It hurt. Abraxas hissed in an inhale of breath at the surprise of such brute force. From out of his grasp flew the AM vial and rolled down into the grass. Draco raised his laden hands once more.

Narcissa, fighting snakes and statues, had this to yell out: ''Are you going to help, Abraxas?''

''Busy!'' Draco swung another attack.

Death lingered by Alexio's side.

Narcissa met eye to eye with the very first Basilisk and had this to say: _''Abraxas! **The plan**!''_

Abraxas remembered what they had agreed upon, but it was one thing to say he would command Death and bring forth another wave of destruction when he was so weak physically and weak willed, deflated after a high power surge learning about someone who had discarded him - only now - Abraxas glanced to the vial - only now to think that maybe he hadn't been discarded just so easily. That in the forefronts of that sick and twisted mind he'd once so adored lay a remnant of decency.

Finding out that Narcissa was left to her own devices, she did what anyone in that situation would: _adapted_. One of her spells broke through the snake and statue shield - finding its target and flinging Alexio back to the floor, causing him to hit his head against a rock. A faint groan escaped him, but the connection he had with the statues diminished. Draco remained on top of Abraxas, but it was easy to slide from under the petrified form of his grandson - now that it was, in fact, petrified to a singular spot.

Abraxas, in one of his more selfish moments in life, decided to leave Narcissa to lure the great basilisk to water where mermaids already remained in waiting for when their favourite human would come. Why? Well, because he was having a lover's conundrum. In his hands he played with the AM vial and stared at it inquisitively. ''This could very well be another dose of the damned poison, too.''

Draco, if he were able to speak or comprehend his situation, would no doubt say: ''This is the most dysfunctional relationship I have ever been privy to knowing and I am appalled.''

Luckily for Abraxas, this was a really big IF.

He swirled the translucent liquid and played with it, tossing it from one hand to the other.

Behind him a death of an era was happening. The oldest basilisk in existence was being made to not exist anymore via Narcissa's cunning plan and ingenious linguistic prowess.

Abraxas could not be bothered to take a look behind him. His grey eyes burned holes through the familiar handwriting. So many people wrote similar to one another - at the very least they wrote letters the same way. There could be so many hundreds of people that could write the letters A and M the same way as it was written. But something intuitive (no doubt his magic, or the elder wand, or his fey genes) told him that this was _that guy's_ handwriting. That infernal, meandering, wonderfully problematic and no-doubt toxic guy that Abraxas had crossed off in the most dramatic of ways.

He struggled to fathom what it would mean if he were to simply take the vial to his lips, as he was doing. He struggled to comprehend what it would mean if he were first to take off the cork from inside the vial because he couldn't drink through the cork, no.

Most importantly,

Abraxas struggled to understand what it would mean for him if Voldemort had thought of him? If he had felt, for the first time in his entire life - a smidgeon of _remorse_?

Because what was leaving the cure (could be poison, a little voice still sang and sounded a lot like his french mother) for Abraxas to find in Draco's possession - if not some sort of apology that a man who had no idea how to make apologies would attempt to make?

Alexio's pained screaming alerted Abraxas that he had awoken and was duelling Narcissa. But Narcissa was holding some sort of trinket she said she'd fished out of the dead basilisk's mouth. This turned out to be Alexio's horcrux.

''Bring it on!'' Narcissa was yelling and waving her wand and the horcrux in her spare hand. Panting: ''This is what happens when you think to challenge the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black!'' With Walburga's ressurection, Abraxas worried that he would be hearing this phrase more and more often.

Abraxas didn't want to hear what Alexio was saying, but it sounded a lot like grovelling.

Narcissa was not above using this hostage situation to her advantage. ''I shall give you the horcrux for Draco's and mine safe passage.'' Abraxas she had crossed off.

''Done. _Done_.'' Alexio's voice was hysteric.

Nobody was even paying attention to Abraxas anymore. This suited him fine because he was paying too much attention to himself and his situation.

''What the fuck does this even MEAN?!'' Abraxas stared at the vial with his initials. ''No letter to go with your mysterious vial you - you _RIDDLE_?! **_Huh_**?''

The vial said nothing, because it was a vial and not a personification of Tom Marvolo Riddle.

This did not stop Abraxas from continuing on with his mixed feelings on the subject.

Behind Abraxas Narcissa had organized Alexio to get the horcrux. He was giving her a vial to instantly turn Draco back to his normal form. She accepted it and strode over to Draco, keeping a tight grip on the horcrux still.

''Abraxas,'' she hissed, ''what in Morgana's name are you doing?''

Abraxas was not doing anything at the moment as he was too invested in debating with a vial as if talking to a person. Exhaustion and illness broke a person after such a long exposure to both, on top of which lay a mountain of stress.

''I swore to kill you! Don't think I won't!''

Narcissa spilled the contents of her vial on Draco and returned him to human form. He collapsed from exhaustion in his mother's arms and after making sure he breathed, Narcissa set him gently down on the ground.

''My horcrux now!'' Alexio's crimson eyes were the same shade as Voldemort's - but they lacked the severity and the fear they could instill into a british person.

Therefore: ''Ha!'' Narcissa pulled a fast move over Alexio and lit the horcrux with fiendfyre. ''Fool!''

Abraxas deigned to place all of this happening around him as background noise.

''NO!'' Alexio fell to his knees. Crimson eyes teared up. ''My soul!''

''Remember me, Alexio, remember me as the one who brought you down for good.'' Narcissa's skills at holding dramatic monologues remained unrivaled and would continue to remain unrivaled until such a time came when humanity ceased to exist.

''Is this an apology?'' Abraxas' throat constricted and a cough tore him asunder. ''Is this you admitting you're wrong? Is this just me trusting you blindly one last time? If I drink this now, Tom Marvolo Riddle, I am Lord Voldemort - you contradiction - what should I think of this?''

Death, Abraxas could hear because of their connection, made the weirdest noises both torn between delight and horror. Narcissa continued duelling a now mortal Alexio. She'd cast a protective shield around her baby boy. Alexio, were he not so emotionally torn up, would have definitely attacked Draco. Sadly,when one didn't have their entire soul present it got hard to think clearly.

It was a green curse that ended it. Alexio crumbled to the sand, in the very same hole he dug for his old body.

''If I die I am going to be so angry with myself.'' Abraxas said and angled the vial to his lips. ''My standards,'' he hoarsely whispered before tipping the contents of the vial into his mouth, ''Merlin, they're even _lower_ than I thought.''


	37. Useful Information

January 2nd – January 3rd 1999

Inside every home there were secrets. One would think that a woman who happened to be trapped in form of a snake was Riddle Manor's long kept secret. One would think wrong.

Walburga Black could feel an ooze of familiar magic seeping through the air gently, leading her into following the scent. Like a blood hound she stalked up the stairs, mindful not to fall down them when they creaked with old age.

Abraxas' dripping wards did not reach this far. Tom Riddle's did. This should have been indication enough that he was alive, but magic did tend to linger even after death. Poor sentimental Abraxas, Walburga spared a single thought and charged farther into the upstairs corridor. There was a certain odour of decay mixing with the magic. The floorboards at some spots were missing, whilst at some they were very fragile and Walburga had to jump over them.

She covered her mouth with her sleeve to cough into. Her eyes watered at the dust and the absolute ruination. Paintings of muggles littered the walls and were they moving Walburga could have thought this a pureblood home. Nothing as extraordinary as a Black's home, but it could pass for wealthy. Lords and Ladies Riddle were extremely wealthy – simply they lacked magic.

Walburga knew that before the Statute of Secrecy wealthy muggles were privy to magic just as much as rich mages were privy to crafting imperius-based connections with aforementioned rich muggles. The Ministry said it was made for mutual safety of mages and muggles. It did nothing more except breed fearmongering and ignorance.

The source of the familiar call was not hidden behind a door at the end of the corridor. No, that door was the third on the left side. Some unimportant linen closet that Walburga opened, wand ready and drawn for battle.

A warped impression of a familiar face greeted her.

She'd met Lord Riddle as a dead and sad woman. It was one of the oddest experiences in her life. At first he was against her returning to the living world and disallowed her to leave through his manor. His green sclera and his green veins glowed hotly, but ultimately Walburga could tell he was afraid. By the tension building itself up in his shoulders and his neck and his face.

''Why?'' Walburga couldn't differentiate between him and Voldemort. The resemblance was uncanny. Their mannerisms, however... No matter how much Voldemort wished to be aristocracy he could never shake that disturbing upbringing. Lord Riddle had the same poised manner of speaking and moving as Walburga did. It helped, she wasn't going to lie, to pay attention to that and not the muggle blood coursing through his emerald veins.

''Magic has done nothing but terrible things to me. If I stop at least one of you from returning I will have done enough for my life.'' There was a bite to his words. There was defensiveness in how he stood. A horrible wariness in how his gaze always strayed from one piece of Walburga to the next, in search of where the magic was coming from. Where she would cast a spell on him. The only smart thing about him was that he never kept eye contact for very long.

''Pitiful, really.'' Walburga never called herself a good person. Gods forbid anyone call her an empathetic person. She had no need for it. ''A muggle is no obstacle for someone like me. Step aside.''

''No.'' Lord Riddle had outstretched his arms and stood firmly at the doorframe stopping her from ascending another step later.

''Yes.'' She stepped closer firmly. The room rattled. Above them a chandelier swayed.

''I am tired of living in fear of you wretched and satanic magicians. You have robbed me of both my life and my afterlife!''

It was a completely different voice. A completely different person. The appearance kept throwing Walburga off, but Tom Riddle would never be this hysteric. This petulant. He could never have enough of a standing to pull it off and to have people around him willing to back this side of him.

Abraxas could rage and throw tantrums all he liked. So could Orion. So could Thoros. So could, it seemed, Lord Riddle.

''It isn't anything personal. Now move away or I will attack.'' He didn't move. Walburga cocked up a brow as dark as the magic right at the tip of her tongue. When she went to cast, however, it turned that she could not cast any magic. Behind her a chill started to creep lazily up her ankles, coiling around her thighs, jumping up her waist, all until it wrapped hard around her throat and pulled her back like a brutal noose.

Lord Riddle had smirked and crossed his arms, moving so he leaned on the doorframe triumphantly.

''It appears to me that you have devils after you.'' Lord Riddle said.

Walburga was flung back to the ground and she blearily looked up to see her youngest son staring down at her with a peculiarly piqued stare.

Death had caught Walburga Black: ''You have travelled far enough.''

''This time.'' Walburga whispered, scratching at the invisible bond across her throat, gasping for air.

Next time she spent a lot less time frightening Lord Riddle and a lot more time trying to understand her obstacle. A few times after that she could even tell that he was trying to understand her. It was most certainly her oddest experience whilst dead: to get to know and love a muggle.

But in life?

The oddest had to be staring at her.

Walburga's lips curled in a pleased little smile. Her shoulders gradually shook harder with laughter. Setting aside her wand she put it back up her sleeve for later use and sat down on the dusty floor of the linen closet. In front of her an impression stared at her. Two figures merging and unmerging from magical ink raged at each other, tugging and pulling and screaming wordlessly. When they unmerged one was dear to her, but only because of its looks and familiar appearance to a man she loved in death. One was even dearer to her because, in a sense, that was her.

In a swamp full of Dementors there was a man with a mind consuming him.

In a swamp full of Dementors there was a woman with a corporeal patronus.

In a swamp full of Dementors there was a fairy with a magical painting kit.

The figures hissed parseltongue and it showed that the artist had poured more of its energy into the painting rather than the subjects. Walburga didn't know a lick of the fairy dialect. She levitated the portrait with her wand and moved to go back to their shared living space.

Thoros and Lucius were talking when she interrupted them with a cough that sounded exactly how Umbridge thought she sounded: authoritative and listened-to.

''Is that –'' Thoros balked at the painting hovering next to Walburga.

''It sure is!'' Walburga exclaimed joyfully, rubbing her hands like a delighted fly that was just about to jump from plate to plate.

Lucius squinted, trying to make sense of modern art. Like most people, it eluded him.

Walburga set the painting down as a centre piece on a wall and propped her hands to her hips. She examined her work of art and chuckled: ''It looks beautiful, doesn't it?''

The figures were clawing and elbowing each other like unruly children. Painting Walburga seemed to be winning. Painting Tom was slumping at her attacks and trying to fight back unsuccessfully. Walburga did remember him as being beyond drained during that period.

Her smile slid off momentarily. She wondered if she hadn't been too busy trying to bring him back as their crusader for purebloods rights, that she'd have her youngest son present still.

''What in Merlin's name-'' Lucius pointed to the painting when from behind the two figures emerged another one, this one drawn in high Baroque style. The contrast between the two abstract Dadaist-looking subjects and the one drawn by a very skilled and learned hand was too big to ignore.

Both subjects rushed to their respective sides of the painting and allowed the newest edition to hold centre. Compared to her the other two looked positively juvenile. They lacked realism and an essence of the person they were depicting. Only a real artist could transfer one's magical signature into art.

Lucius covered his gaping mouth with his hand. Thoros was taking out his wand and casting silencing charm barriers around himself. He looked between Walburga and the painting hanging on the wall and muttered: ''One Walburga is enough. Gods.''

The incredibly well made and very realistic subject narrowed her eyes and pointed at Walburga Black, singling her out from the three mages present in the muggle manor. ''Have you ANY idea what MY home has become?''

Walburga said that yes, she was well aware. ''In the afterlife I actually got to watch some parts of the world. It was Death's idea of distracting me from escaping. Sirius is doing… not horribly.''

''NOT HORRIBLY?'' Scandalized screeching. Both Tom and Parseltongue Walburga raised their arms to cover their ears. Lucius nearly fell to his knees from the potency. Thoros didn't look like a fool with those silencing charms now.

Walburga the Person narrowed her eyes at her official portrait. They said that the better connection the painted had with the painter the painting would be made to be powerful. She always cherished that Orion had decided to paint her. Well, it was the least he could do after she'd cultivated that hobby of his. Nobody believed he could learn to draw, let alone paint magical paintings when he'd started out. But Walburga had told him something that she truly and ardently believed in: There was nothing a Black couldn't do if they had set their minds on it.

''DO YOU HEAR YOURSELF? HAVE YOU ANY IDEA WHAT HE ALLOWS TO WALK THROUGH OUR ANCESTRAL HOME?!''

Walburga began to see, now that she was being yelled at by herself, that maybe – just maybe – she could actually admit to calling herself loud.

* * *

''BLOOD TRAITORS!''

* * *

Sirius balked at the figure emerging from the fireplace in Grimmauld Place. Ron was the first to come over to the sound of inarticulate sounds and gasps for breath as a figure tried to speak clearly, but failed in an odd showing of confused pandemonium.

* * *

''HALFBLOODS!''

* * *

Harry Potter and Tonks moved into view and looked between each other briefly before rushing forward to help Ron and Sirius deal with their newest presence.

* * *

''HALFBREEDS!''

* * *

Remus Lupin blinked in the background of the scene unfolding dramatically in the sitting room. He sheathed his wand back once he realised that there was no immediate threat to handle. In his yellow eyes reflected a bushy haired witch.

* * *

''And FINALLY!" Walburga's portrait yelled:

'' ** _A MUDBLOOD!''_**

* * *

Hermione Granger's arrival to Grimmauld Place could be described as a very small cat with electrified fur ramming straight through a window into a house she deemed safe.

She moved towards Harry and Ron, finding them her anchors in this state of perpetual unease and fear that had overtaken her. Her fingers shook as she clasped hold of them tightly and leaned into the both of them. A shudder ran through her harshly and when asked what was happening couldn't utter a sentence, only a word that she couldn't believe: ''Voldemort.''

There were flinches around. Harry broke their hug first and looked at her with his oddly vibrant, killing-curse green eyes. Hermione tilted her head to get a better look at that infamous scar. She recalled her mentor's first lesson: horcruxes. There was some heinously unexplored abnormality with Harry's inability to die.

''What about _him_?'' Sirius and Tonks and Remus asked. Were there more members of the Order, no doubt they would have asked many more questions. Hermione closed her eyes and breathed shallowly. Her heart was constricted her ribcage felt too small her lungs felt dried up her chest hurt her breath went and went and went and went.

Ron, always the most emotionally intelligent of the trio, pulled her close once more and begged her to breathe. That was easy to ask, but not easy to very well do! Or so Hermione wished to tell her friend. She was a bad friend, the thoughts kept piling up, so easy to trade them for something new and exciting. When was the last time she was in touch with any of them? When was the last time she actually talked to Pansy and Millie and Daphne and Luna and Ginny and and _and_ _and **and AND**_

So quick to abscond on a merry adventure of learning and absorbing knowledge from her mentor who – OH YES – so happened to be VOLDEMORT! That guy! That megalomaniac that killed muggleborns like her with the same indifference Hermione had for stepping on leaves. That heinous fiend that cast fiendfyre and burned the world as leisurely as Hermione strolled through library aisles. That wonderfully tyrannical criminal that held her hair when she was throwing up and really, really needed someone to talk to her; that _present_ and interested figure in her life that could actually relate to her need to know everything; that -

* * *

"CAN YOU BELIEVE IT? A MUDBLOOD, WALBURGA! IN MY HOME, TOUCHING MY THINGS, BREATHNG MY AIR!''

* * *

Hermione broke off from everyone's questions and worried glances and grasped hold of a vase that wobbled with the same level of uncertainty as Hermione's brain buzzed. It fell over and crashed, playing a symphony of cacophony.

Tears welled in her eyes, not from sadness, just the inability to calm down. Things had finally, it seemed, caught up with Hermione. One of her hands palmed the wall next to her for support because her legs were giving out on her, but this time she felt like she was only capable of falling. At least she had to be happy it wasn't a height only flying could save her from dying.

''Breathe, Hermione! Merlin!''

Grimmauld Place was the stuffiest place Hermione had ever stepped into.

* * *

''What KIND of mudblood?'' Walburga asked, finally joining the conversation. Mudbloods, in her opinion, had their uses.

''There are different kinds?'' Lucius mouthed to Thoros who couldn't hear a damn thing and was very pleased with that.

''WHAT KIND? _WHAT KIND_ SHE ASKS ME! THE **WORST** KIND! THOSE **_POLITICAL_** ONES WHO SUPPORT _NOBBY LEACH_!''

* * *

Tonks fetched a calming draught from another room and shoved it in Hermione's hands, ordering her to drink it. ''If you've got information we need it.''

Hermione took one gulp. It was all she could muster. Though, finally, she could breathe.

She took another sip of the draught. And another. And so on.

* * *

"EVERY TIME SHE COMES INTO MY ANCESTRAL HOME – IN A HOME NO MUDBLOOD BEFORE HER HAS EVER STEPPED FOOT – WITH GOOD RIGHT MIGHT I SAY! – EVERY TIME IT'S A DEFEAT FOR THE NOBLE AND MOST ANCIENT HOUSE OF BLACK, WALBURGA!"

* * *

Hermione looked at Harry and told him, very calmly: ''Voldemort's my mentor. He's going by Montgomery Goldsmith and he makes amazing fish fillets.'' Then, because she had drunk the calming draught too quickly, she said: ''They're the best fish fillets I've ever eaten. Harry, he cooks _so well_.''

Tonks went to fire-call Moody immediately. Ron was ushering Hermione into a seat. Harry and Sirius did not know what to do in that situation as they had spent the better part of their lives following another's lead. Harry's blood boiled and he asked: ''Did he hurt you?''

Hermione sipped the draught. ''No.''

''Are you lying?''

She shook her head and breathed as if she was taking her first breaths. These past few days of pretending had taken their toll on her. ''There's a contract. Besides, he doesn't know I know.''

''Unlikely.'' Harry said, reminding Hermione that Voldemort was a skilled legilimens.

''He can't get into my head – _contract_.''

''Highly likely.'' Harry corrected himself.

Hermione chuckled. It loosed the knots in her shoulders. Harry cracked a smile at her. Ron brought her water and asked: ''Oi, wait, isn't your mentor that guy with the horrible clothes? Harry mentioned he was dressed terribly, but we chalked it up as American fashion sense.''

''No, I reckon he believes that's how Americans dress.'' Hermione inhaled and exhaled. Her hands shook slightly as she brought the water to her lips.

''As far as we know that _is_ how Americans dress.''

* * *

Walburga tried to speak, but Walburga's portrait disallowed her: "THE MUDBLOOD DOESN'T KNOW HER PLACE! IT'S TOO MUCH BEING IN THAT HOME RIGHT NOW WITH ALL OF THEM! THEY'RE TREATING HER LIKE SOME SORT OF PRINCESS – THE ORDER OF THE PHOENIX'S MOST VALUED – YOU'D THINK _SHE_ WAS DESTINED TO KILL RIDDLE WITH HOW MUCH THEY'RE TALKING.''

''Do you know her name?'' Walburga asked, looking up at the portrait, though only in the literal sense. This was an old version of her – one that could not see the potential in the people her son let move into their home. _Everyone_ had their use. And everyone could _be_ used.

''Hermione Granger, I do believe.'' Walburga's portrait said. ''Why care for something so trivial?''

''Why know something so trivial?'' Walburga parried across.

The portrait raised her brows far up on her forehead, exaggerated because of the magic and her not being a person. She leaned forward as much as her space could allow her and asked: ''What will you do about Grimmauld Place?''

''What any sensible pureblood of my stature would.'' Walburga smiled. ''I'll pay them a cordial visit and remind them of their rightful place.''

''Beneath us.'' Walburga's portrait said.

* * *

Beneath Walburga Black's empty portrait sat Hermione Granger with Harry Potter and Ron Weasley. The Golden Trio had reunited once more, accompanied with a lot of Weasleys and a transfiguration professor.

* * *

''Beneath us.'' Walburga confirmed.

Lucius and Thoros exchanged worried glances.


	38. Expecto Patronum

A patronus was telling of a person's soul. That was why the lack of one, or one's complete inability to cast it foretold a darker side to humanity's magical advances. People believed that one's pure of heart nature gave them the chance to cast a patronus and even insured them that they could. This line of thinking was only presumptuous and even in some cases, haughty.

Pure of heart didn't exist. It was a harmful and distorted view of the world and its people. Morality had absolutely no claim to one's ability to conjure happy memories. Though did it have something to do with mental illness and one's sense of self-worth? Certainly it could play a hand in one's development and magical fortitude, but it meant that creating a patronus would be difficult, not impossible.

Why was this important to differentiate?

Because the idea of Death Eaters not being able to cast a patronus because of their war crimes and warped view of the world was silly and painted humanity as some straightforward design. People by default were complex beings with their own agendas.

Besides,

If someone as black of heart as Walburga Black could do it, then so could everyone with a full soul in their ribcage (or wherever it was that something like a soul resided)

* * *

''I have an idea.'' Walburga Black said.

Lucius and Thoros listened. ''Yes?''

Walburga told them her master plan. Luckily she was down for constructive criticism because by her first draft the master plan included at least three explosions and two maiming attempts.

Thoros ran a hand through his hair and looked fearfully towards the outside, remembering that he was marked with a mark of a madman and had just escaped prison. ''This may be difficult.'' He made an understatement that would go down in history.

Lucius twirled his long hair in an easy-going gesture before saying: ''Perhaps not if we had more people.''

''Of course we need more people. You think I could do this with you two incompetents?'' Walburga Black always knew what to say to make a person feel special and loved. This was why she was remembered in her death as a caring mother, honoured wife, and beloved friend.

''Who do you propose?''

''My wretched family.''

''Bellatrix is ...'' Thoros was about to say 'in prison' but then he couldn't recall seeing her in Azkaban. They'd been on what Moody had called the Death Eater floor. Most peculiar. Back when he was out of his wits with fear he hadn't been able to see properly or tell apart the dead and the living, but now when he went back over the material forever lodged in his head like a horror film he could tell, with near certainty: ''I don't know.''

''How helpful.'' Walburga jabbed, grimacing at him.

''I'll contact Cissa.'' Lucius said and took out his wand.

''You can cast a patronus?''

''Not a corporeal one.'' Lucius had never had enough of a presence to call his own and use as a foundation point for making his magic strong. He'd been a good follower and good at passing, but real power that wasn't posturing and money completely missed him. With a father like Abraxas that stomped on him whenever he could, Lucius had turned out as well as one could have hoped.

A small wisp of glowing magic crept from under the doorframe and fled off to find Narcissa.

''Well, while we wait to find Narcissa and hear from her where Bellatrix may be, we shall go to the ONE niece I know hasn't changed her location.'' Walburga said and told Lucius and Thoros to accompany her on a journey. One that twenty years ago would have only anguished her.

* * *

Thoros Nott stood in front of a suburban home dressed in Azkaban robes, accompanied by Lucius, who was also decked out in Dementor chosen couture. Walburga wore her funeral garb and knocked on the door like a plebeian.

Purebloods, by default, didn't use front doors. Why would they? They could apparate into homes, they could floo through fireplaces, and at the end of the day they could break through windows of their enemies and attack unsuspecting mages and muggles.

Using front doors was unfashionable.

Using front doors was suspiciously alike to a muggle view of the world.

The idea coming from Walburga set off plenty of alarms in Thoros' head, especially because this Walburga walked differently, with a sort of changed air around her. It reeked of Death and carrion likened to the one described by Baudelaire. Walburga wore the smell like the sweetest perfume. A quarter of her face was marred with open bone and mending flesh. Her gums were visible and Thoros tried not to look at that side if he could help it. Was Walburga self-conscious? Gods forbid! She was the purest of them all and that was what mattered! Nothing as shallow as one's physical appearance!

''Where are we?'' Lucius whispered, fingering his wand in an expected form of anxiety. They'd all just escaped prison, after all. Thoros thought of his son and hoped that he was all right. He wondered where he was, if he had gone to Nott manor while this all blew over? Was there coverage of his imprisonment in the papers? Did people give his son a hard time?

The door was opened by a nondescript man that Walburga had never met before now. But by the sheer horror written across his face in an undignified scrawl unworthy of her time and status it appeared that this man knew of her. This would not be the first time that Walburga Black's reputation preceded her, but it would be the most irritating.

Judging by the man's complete lack of speaking ability he floundered for a moment, trying to find coherent words to use in a sentence, failed, and closed the door straight in Walburga's face.

Thoros and Lucius asked, again, who it was they were supposed to meet. They did not recognize this man at all.

Inside the suburban home there were rustles and muffled shouts, followed with scrambling moments of abundant terror. Walburga looked at her watch; the same Orion had given her on her 17th birthday. She chatted with Lucius and Thoros. ''What are your sons like?''

''Mine's studying to be a healer.'' Thoros proudly exclaimed, huffing his chest out like a mother hen. Walburga grimaced at that and said that it was a servant's profession. It was an art form, how little time it took Walburga to deflate another's happiness with as few words as possible. Thoros regretted ever opening his mouth.

''I still fail to understand why Orion liked you.''

''He's a dear.'' Walburga smiled warmly. ''We were in love.''

The expression baffled both Lucius and Thoros.

Luckily they needn't stare at it for long because the front door of the suburban home opened again. Except this time four wands aimed at them.

Chief among the mages present was Bellatrix Black, dressed in a muggle tracksuit, with hair curlers in her long, brittle hair. Azkaban had been unkind. On her left was Barty Crouch Jr, dressed in a proper robe and not sleeping attire. On her right was Andromeda, the one that Walburga had wanted to see in the first place (though, really, Bellatrix did come as a beautiful bonus). Behind them all was the man (Walburga figured now that that was Andromeda's mudblood of a husband)

''Get in.'' Bellatrix ordered.

Who were they to object such a lovely invitation?

* * *

Ted Tonks didn't like his wife's family. Mostly because a few decades ago they would have relished in torturing him to death for something as inane as lineage. Now they all pretended to like him. Bellatrix tried to crack jokes and Ted didn't laugh genuinely, but he laughed as his wife was connecting to her terrible, horrendous family and he was going to be a supportive husband. Lucius didn't speak to Ted because he had nothing to say to him and Ted had nothing to say to him back so they were even. Thoros and Barty weren't family so he didn't care very much about what they thought of him. Neither did Andromeda for that matter. They came as accessories to Andy's family. Walburga Black... now that was a difficult relationship to craft as he'd heard stories depicting her as a tyrant worse than You-Know-Who. She ignored him and perhaps that was for the best.

They all sat together in the living room on a bunch of chairs and a couch that was an anniversary gift. Andromeda and Ted were the sort of couple that had reached that level of being married when jewellery and fancy dinners bored them. Now a couch? One that was comfortable and looked nice visually? That was brilliant! That was the type of thing that got their love-life hot and bothered!

Walburga, as the eldest present, decided to hold monopoly over who got to speak. ''Bellatrix, it is absolutely good to see you have escaped from Azkaban.''

''No thanks to any of you so called members of my family.'' Barty's shoulders slumped. Bellatrix patted him on the head and pulled him closer to her into a hug as they both sat together on the couch. ''Except Barty here, of course.'' His face brightened up as his idol praised him. ''Couldn't have done it without him.''

Ted was sipping some spiked tea and had handed out non-spiked tea to his guests because he didn't know what inane things may spring up in their less-than-sober minds. Andromeda mushed her face with her fist as her elbow was propped on the arm of the armchair she occupied. It gave her direct view of Walburga. Andromeda's eyes looked just about ready to pop out and roll around frantically on the polished hardwood floor.

''How are you even alive?''

''I beat Death in a duel and she allowed me to return.'' Walburga liked to embellish a little. Beating Death in a duel sounded beyond exciting in her opinion. Much better than saying she broke into Abraxas' afterlife and stole him away to use him on her quest for resurrecting herself.

''That sounds like something you could pull off.'' Thoros whispered into his tea mug.

Lucius stared at Bellatrix and asked: ''Wait, Bellatrix, do you know about –'' You-Know-Who crossed over his mind, but that was too childish to say, Dark Lord crossed his mind but that was too supportive of the man's ideology to say and he was in the presence of a muggleborn so it came as no surprise when Lucius trailed off. It got very hard to name that person. Mixed company was the hardest to entertain and be entertained by.

''About that lying sack of pricks?'' Bellatrix drank scalding hot tea and it didn't burn her nearly as much as the all-encompassing rage swirling in her heart. ''Yes, Lucius, I am well aware of our supposed lord that should have taken care of us. He crossed over to British soil without even attempting to break us out.'' Bellatrix pulled up her sleeve and bared her dark and vibrant mark. ''Does this look like it belongs to a man whose magic is depleted? He doesn't look like he's near death to me.''

A woman scorned was dangerous. A woman who knew the ins-and-outs of the Dark Lord's business and magical ideas who felt wronged was even more dangerous.

''If I were loyal to him and waited for his return I would still be rotting in Azkaban!'' The moral of Bellatrix's story here was that waiting for anyone to do something for you that you, yourself, could do was redundant. All it left you feeling was a feeling known as: helplessness sprinkled ever so slightly with regret for ever letting another person control your time and limit you.

Andromeda inquired of Walburga, finding her more interesting than this squabble between Lucius and Bellatrix: ''Why come to me?''

''I didn't know where either of your sisters was. Trust me, you were not my first choice.''

''Narcissa's returned to Malfoy Manor.''

Hearing Narcissa's name had Lucius inquiring: ‘’Where from?''

''A rescue mission to find your son.'' Andromeda answered. ''They are both fine. She has written us to let us know.''

''My son?'' Lucius jumped to his feet. ''My wife?'' Then, when all of this clicked into place for him he exclaimed: ''My family's all right!'' He grabbed hold of the nearest person (Ted Tonks) and swung him with unimaginable glee in the living room. ''My family's really all right!''

Andromeda and Bellatrix and Walburga stared at the sight unblinkingly. Their family resemblance was striking in their confusion.

Barty and Thoros had no idea whether to intrude on this moment of familial love so they settled on sipping their tea peacefully and staring at their marked forearms.

''Do you think he can hear what we're saying?'' Barty tapped the mark. Thoros hoped not. Dear lords and ladies of his ancestry he hoped not. He'd said quite a lot of awful things about their supposed lord over the stretching decades. Things that he was not brave enough to repeat to anyone's face.

''That's not how it works.'' Bellatrix said to Barty.

''Do you _know_ how it works?''

''Yes.'' Bellatrix said. ''I was his most trusted.''

''Up until the point when you weren't.'' Thoros remembered that catastrophe. Bellatrix seethed at the memory of her downfall from General to Still-General-But-Secretly-Voldemort-Wanted-To-Throw-Her-To-Wolves.

''I don't understand why he didn't do anything.'' Bellatrix raised her arms in a lack of understanding. Voldemort's actions in the late 70s were uncoordinated and proved each passing day that he was unstable.

''Because it would have shown weakness. By not doing anything to you for slipping him a love potion he agreed that keeping you by his side in battle made for a better strategic move. Surely you understand that?'' Thoros pressed his hands together and leaned forward from his chair.

Crackling fire in the fireplace danced. For a brief moment it was the only sound in the living room.

Until Andromeda asked: ''You slipped him a love potion?''

''He was miserable, all right! I could see him struggling with his emotions. It wasn't meant to hurt him, just help him clear up some things.''

''So you thought your womanly wiles could entice him into dancing a cheerful jig?'' Andromeda shot back.

''I thought it would help him and _Abraxas_! I wasn't blind; I could tell he didn't fancy women. Besides,'' Bellatrix crossed her arms, ''I was happily married to Rod.''

''Were you really?'' Andromeda tilted her head and from this angle she looked like a predatory owl that could go for a snack.

''As happily as someone like me could be.'' Bellatrix shrugged. ''It was expected, wasn't it?''

''You're talking to the wrong person if you're going to defend adhering to family's expectations.'' Andromeda leaned back into her chair. Ted lovingly took her hand, now that Lucius had let go of his and had stopped swinging him about.

''The Order will figure out you've escaped from prison and will send people after you.'' Walburga Black who technically didn't do anything illegal as deceased people couldn't be tried had a lot of things to say.

To Andromeda and Ted: ''Knowingly providing refuge to an escaped convict and charged war criminal.''

To Lucius, Thoros, Bellatrix, and Barty: ''War crimes and escaping prison. Just overall,'' she vaguely gestured their entire selves, ''everything you've done is a crime in some shape or form.''

''And you're the only one who's never done any wrong ever.'' Bellatrix and Andromeda sneered back at Walburga. ''Isn't that right, Aunt Burga?''

''Of course.'' Walburga said. She didn't believe this, mind you, but to admit so in front of her nieces would paint her as weak and weak she was not!

''But deep down inside,'' Barty asked everyone present, ''we're good people, aren't we? We've realised the error of our ways? Shouldn't that count for something?'' Did they realise the error of their ways or did they realise that supporting Voldemort and rooting for pureblood supremacy was an outdated way of life was a good question. So good in fact that it left the remaining members of the meeting speechless.

But Walburga Black couldn't stay silent for very long. She deadpanned: ' _'There's no such thing as good people._ To think of yourself as a good person is cocky and arrogant. Not to mention very pretentious. There are no good people nor are there bad people.''

''What then,'' Bellatrix asked, ''are we?''

''People who are going to be asked to do the right thing. Now,'' Walburga slowly sized up her cheerless crew, ''it is solely up to us whether or not we _will_ do the right thing.''

''Isn't it a given?'' Barty asked. It showed that he spent a good portion of his life dreaming.

''No, it really isn't.'' Andromeda said. ''It really isn't a given that you'll do the right thing when asked.''

''That's why we'll beat them to it. The Order doesn't expect any of us to do the right thing. They think we're for Riddle. They think we care what little Junior wants of the wizarding world?'' Walburga laughed a full, hearty laugh. ''They're wrong! It's time to prove them wrong and ensure a new spot in this world for all of us. One that is worthy of our actions and blood.''

Bellatrix pressed her lips together in contemplation. She tapped her chin with her finger and whispered, looking at Walburga Black with an expression of piqued curiosity: ''What do you have in mind?''

Walburga's face split into a smile that on anyone else would have looked monstrously unfitting, yet on a face of a resurrected woman it draped aptly. She leaned forward and everyone stepped closer to listen.

* * *

Lucius arrived to Malfoy Manor with his ragtag team of family members and close family friends in a wave of silence. Only uninvited guests arrived with fanfare. Owners of a home they were entering arrived silently and calmly.

In the foyer of Malfoy Manor, where the fireplace was situated in, Narcissa lounged on a chaise longue and watched upward, counting tiles. For a woman that had returned her son to her home after a long absence riddled with fear she sure looked exhausted and dejected.

''Cissa.'' Lucius whispered tentatively and rushed to her side. She looked at him and smiled, widening her eyes in relief.

''Lucius.'' She moved to stand up, but Lucius had already wrapped his arms around her and was kissing her with all of the beauty and longing he'd felt for his wife.

They immersed themselves in their magic's sensations and forgot that there were people around. Narcissa coiled fingers through Lucius' long hair and kept him close, pressing herself against him. Her eyes glowed fiercely, protectively for her husband. His glowed a faint silver. His hand slipped from around her to grab her free hand and interlock their fingers together.

''My love, did they hurt you?'' Narcissa wondered, remembering where her husband had come from. Worry lines creased her enchanting visage.

''Who cares now that I'm here with you,'' Lucius whispered and kissed her again.

''I care!'' Narcissa indignantly shouted. ''I care what happens to you. I will always care no matter how far apart we may be.''

''What about you?'' Lucius struggled to keep his emotions into check and his voice spoke of urgency, ''Were you hurt? To go and rescue Draco by yourself is – is beyond foolish Cissa, and I cannot believe you didn't take any of your sisters with you-''

Narcissa kissed Lucius, ending his rambling. She broke the kiss after a time and said: ''I would prefer not to be reminded of that dreadful expedition into the unknown. Whilst adrenaline aids you and all of your motherly instincts are kicking you to go on it isn't hard to do uncomfortable and unfathomable things. However,'' Narcissa sagged in place, her form puzzled and her mind frazzled, ''when all of that fades and you are captured in a net of safety and homeliness… things catch up to you.''

Lucius sat next to Narcissa on the chaise longue and held his wife who closed her eyes and leaned into the touch of her love, her chosen and unbreakable soulmate. ''You are so brave my dear. So very brave. To do everything by yourself.''

''Oh,'' bitterness that Lucius adored adorned his wife's voice, ''I wasn't alone. Abraxas was with me.'' She glanced over to her family that shuffled awkwardly amidst a showing of two lovers, ''He did nothing but get in my way and scream unhelpfully. Though, I see he hadn't lied about Walburga returning from the dead.''

Walburga waved at her youngest niece.

''Hello, Auntie.''

''Hello, dearest.''

Bellatrix strode over to Narcissa and pushed Lucius away, scooting between them. ''What's wrong with you?''

''I… am just tired.''

''What happened?'' Andromeda walked to them both and pushed Lucius completely away so she could sit on the chaise longue with her sisters.

Narcissa thought about playing it down, but really, it wasn't something one could just get over easily: ''I may have killed a person. And a basilisk… I think they may have been the oldest specimens of both species…''

''You really do not do things halfway, do you?'' Andromeda tried for a smile, but was too horrified to smile.

Bellatrix couldn't believe that out of her atrocities and her actions she'd never live up to the sheer magnitude of Narcissa's one-time dealings in illicit behaviour. ''You prodigy! You really go all out, little flower!''

''I feel disgusting.'' Narcissa whispered, curling her hands inward into tight fists.

Lucius, who was not standing nearby his wife as he'd been shoved away by her family, had this to say: ''Cissa, dear, you did admirably.''

''I am never going to do anything of the sort ever again.''

''Nobody's asking you.''

''Nobody asked me then. I was just so angry.'' Narcissa closed her eyes, ''I wanted to grab Draco and live. I wanted to survive.''

''And you did.'' Bellatrix said. ''Don't sully your victory by beating yourself up about it. Was there a lot of blood?''

''No. I used the killing curse.''

''Oh, well, I understand why you feel like shit, at least.'' Bellatrix offered. ''It's an addictive curse. All of the unforgivables are. When you get lost in one it's difficult to go back. Only a strong willed individual can say no to it. Have you used it since then?''

''Since yesterday?'' Narcissa shook her head 'no'.

''Good! That's good. Keep at it.'' Bellatrix could only speak like a drill sergeant motivating recruits whenever she got anxious for the people she cared about. Narcissa knew this and cracked a tired smile.

''I'll be here.'' Lucius said and kind of pulled Bellatrix away from his wife whom he wished to hold.

Andromeda he didn't dare touch because he didn't know Andromeda as well as he did Bellatrix so he didn't want to overstep any boundaries and earn her ire.

''Where is Draco?''

''Outside, riding on a broom.''

''That boy jumped back up from trauma easily.'' Andromeda whispered in awe.

''He wasn't aware of anything. For him all he did was asleep these past few months. He's irritated of losing so much time, but people live with obliviated years easily enough. Whatever lingering trauma may be residing will be dealt with in time.'' Narcissa spoke.

''What about Abraxas?'' Walburga asked. ''Where is that daft man I have many things to talk to him about.''

''He's out riding a broom with Draco. They're doing flips.'' Narcissa said the word 'flips' with the same level of repulsion Walburga would use to say 'pleather'.

''What do you mean he's out doing _flips_?''

''Isn't he very ill?''

''He is!'' Thoros shouted. ''He shouldn't be doing such things.'' He stormed outside to put an end to this nonsense. Everyone except for Narcissa and Lucius followed after him, more out of curiosity than anything else.

Narcissa wisely said nothing because it left her alone with her husband. She cupped his chin and guided him into a gentle kiss.

To hell with Abraxas Malfoy, she thought.

* * *

Draco Malfoy relished in sensation. He flew recklessly, reaching out his hand to run along the lake's surface. Peafowls cawed pleasantly at him and he even patted one on his way through his home. What a beautiful thought it was that he had returned and could put that nasty business behind him.

He could hear the rustling of wind, could feel the frost of winter, could see the potential if snow were to fall. Draco breathed in and then out and then in and then out, solely repeating so he could see and hear and feel his breath.

While he was too busy getting himself acquainted with sensation, a broom whizzed past him fast. Draco whirled around after it and could see as the figure in front of him held the broom with one hand tightly and balanced with the other, moving his feet so they rested on the broom, easing himself into a standing position.

An abrupt laugh (not unlike a peacock's caw) erupted from the man in front. He glided over the Malfoy Lake and raised his arms in the air. He turned to see Draco and Abraxas' eyes were the most potent shade of silver, not like any Draco had seen in his sickly grandfather's skull.

There was nothing as freeing, nothing as wonderful as flying for the first time after having not done so in a long time. For Draco it'd been months, for Abraxas it'd been decades.

Grandfather and grandson flew together. Once Abraxas got back in proper position, they raced each other, flying over Malfoy Manor like competing schoolchildren.

Draco's laughter bubbled, drawn out by Abraxas' pleasant one.

They dropped off on the roof of Malfoy Manor and sat on one of the roof's small terraces. Abraxas shook off the cold and used his broom as a cane, then remembered, and threw it down. The thump of it hitting the ground had him reeling with laughter. He hugged himself and laughed, never in his life finding life dearer to him.

Draco sat down on the ground he'd cast to be warm and huddled. He gave his grandfather a fond smile. Full of awe grandchildren had for their grandparents.

Abraxas was overcome with such joy that he pulled Draco up from his sitting position and danced with him on the terrace, swinging him and holding him and laughing together.

His magic sang, unburdened, wholly genuine, and healthy. Abraxas looked like the most handsome man alive, even with the scars lining his body and marring it unpleasantly; he was the most handsome man alive because he could live without fear of pain and illness; his endearing energy burst forth into the world and enveloped their whole estate in a song brought together only by a composer in love with life and the idea of living.

Draco's smile remained plastered to his face. In all of his years of knowing his grandfather he'd never seen him this elated. Perhaps that was because he wasn't as happy as he could be. Those tales of his childhood and youth had always made Draco sceptical because his grandfather had seemed the least likely person to do anything sporty, let alone ride a broom and play Quidditch as a Beater. His frail and bitter grandfather that only ever tried not to be like that around Draco couldn't have been the life of the party, but now, dancing with him on top of Malfoy Manor – cemented those stories into a reality that Draco couldn't be happier to be living in.

His grandfather was all of those things and more.

His magic danced warmly over Draco's and told his that everything would be fine. His mother's magic, once he'd woken up, had been so deeply unsettled that it had disturbed him. He hoped she would get better.

Abraxas' magic and his whole demeanour and his whole bon vivre spun together into an anthem of change and a hope that Draco hadn't dared hope since he was very little: that he could see his grandfather truly, honestly happy.

In this light, Draco swore that Abraxas looked like a completely different person; one whose happiness slid off when a terrified shout resounded across Malfoy Estate.

''ABRAXAS HYPERION MALFOY, ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR FUCKING MIND?!''

Who knew that Lord Nott had such a pair of powerful lungs on him?

* * *

Even before Abraxas and Draco got down to the ground safely, Bellatrix knew that there was something undeniably wrong with this picture of perfect health. Her heart seized in her chest.

The only – and she meant it— the only reason why she'd accepted to come into Malfoy Manor was because Walburga had told her that Abraxas had proclaimed his allegiance lay with her and wished to kill her ex-lord because he'd been poisoned by him. This had calmed her nerves.

Seeing Abraxas healthy and cured from the poison set off alarms in Bellatrix's mind. She elbowed Walburga and when the shorter woman looked at her said: ''Did you assure me that Abraxas could be trusted for this type of job before or _after_ he got the cure?''

''Before.'' Walburga admitted. There was a world of difference in that word.

Throughout the fanfare of Thoros Nott mothering Abraxas Malfoy, their scheming could go unnoticed and unheard. Andromeda and Ted looked at Draco like he had grown ten heads mostly because they thought that a child between Narcissa and Lucius would have ten very needy and very whiny heads.

''I am _not_ going to have my safety compromised because of your oversight.''

''You weren't there.'' Walburga defended Abraxas' alliance with her. ''You didn't see that power and that betrayal.''

''Do you know what I see,'' Bellatrix hissed, pushing her body against Walburga's so the older woman understood Bellatrix could and would resort to violence. ''Do you Aunt Walburga? I see a happy man in front of me. Happy men are unpredictable and changed. Whatever plan you had falls into ruin and disarray if Abraxas Malfoy isn't playing the plan with us fully.''

''You think he's in touch with him?''

''What else? I don't trust him. I've never trusted him. He's weak and he's easy to forgive the unforgivable.''

Walburga narrowed her eyes at Abraxas trying to defend himself from Thoros who was caught up yelling about safety regulations. ''You don't think that he's working with Riddle, do you?''

''There is a way to find out.'' Bellatrix didn't know much about this new Abraxas. But she remembered a regretful and mean man whose patronus was a snake. That was not something that could ever be faked. If he had truly gone through such a dramatic transformation in the afterlife as Walburga claimed, then his patronus would change – to what didn't interest her, as long as it wasn't a snake honouring his love for Tom Marvolo Riddle.

''Lord Malfoy.'' Bellatrix addressed.

Abraxas Malfoy's split second reaction to seeing Bellatrix in his garden was that of a guarded man with a secret. Then the mask of coolness decorated his face.

''Lady Lestrange.'' Abraxas parried.

The tense atmosphere couldn't be cut with a slicing hex because it was so abundant and suffocating. The merry energy from before was snuffed out swiftly.

''Ahem, well, listen—'' Thoros tried, bless his dear heart, he truly tried to alleviate the tension.

''Congratulations on beating your illness.''

''Congratulations on escaping Azkaban.''

''How _did_ you beat it?'' Bellatrix stepped closer. It was a dangerous game she played to approach a man like Lord Malfoy without the proper respect. But she tired of respecting old men who did not respect her.

''How did you _escape_?''

''Crafted a deal with a Dementor.'' Bellatrix explained. Abraxas blinked rapidly at the plan and the execution of said plan. He looked at Barty Jr. shuffling about aimlessly and gestured him, trying to make sense of his existence. From this daze he awoke when Bellatrix said: ''Your turn, Lord Malfoy.'' Abraxas scowled at the title, which Bellatrix thought had to do with her cheek and not his newfound rebellious attitude towards upholding pure values of his ancestors.

Walburga pointed at him and asked him why he wasn't forthcoming with information.

Abraxas Malfoy’s changed clothes rarely matched, but the pocket square creeping out from his polka dotted robe didn't fit at all. It looked like nothing Abraxas would have ever worn. Walburga squinted her eyes at it. On his finger was a ring that Abraxas' gaze strayed to instinctively, but then never again because he didn't want it to attract unwanted attention.

When Bellatrix approached again, demanding he explain himself – Abraxas took out a wand that was not his willow wand and aimed it at Bellatrix.

''Listen here you _chit_ ,'' Abraxas never liked Bellatrix and her naïve and meddling outlook on his and Tom Riddle's life, ''I do not have to explain myself to you at all. Do remember that you are on _my_ property and what I do with you is _my_ decision.''

''What,'' Bellatrix challenged, dredging up things from before their individual imprisonments, ''are you going to feed me to the peafowls?''

''Did you really threaten MY NIECE with something as INANE as getting DEVOURED BY BIRDS?!'' Walburga Black joined the conversation.

Andromeda and Ted studied Draco intensely. Barty slowly slinked off towards where they were because he worried for his safety. Thoros didn't know how to handle being between Abraxas and Walburga again. He felt too old for this sort of confrontation. All the other ones had been easier because he'd had Tom Riddle and Orion Black as backup. Now there was only him. Azkaban seemed like such a beautiful place now.

''What I may or may not have said is none of your concern, Walburga. Now what is the meaning of this intrusion?''

''Look at you, found a cure from your lover boy and now you're haughty like a peacock.'' Walburga laughed in his face cruelly. ''Don't overestimate yourself. It is I that saved you from that place and gave you this life.''

''Yes,'' Abraxas clutched onto the wand and he lowered it when Walburga got in front of it. ''You helped me escape the boring throes of the afterlife.'' Walburga puffed her chest up, but he cut her off before she could make him owe her, ''just as much as I helped you climb that tower of lost souls.''

''Abraxas, we are not accusing you of anything-''

 _''I am!_ I am accusing him of working with Voldemort and that's why he won't admit he's on our side truly. Because he knows a Black will be able to see through him. But even we err.'' Bellatrix admitted. ''Even we are not always right. So as not to be in another's mercy, place yourself in your own power. Are you still willing to kill Voldemort?''

''Yes.'' Abraxas said. He clutched his wand and avoided Bellatrix's eyes, looking towards a direction where no one stood. It looked kind of like how a cat looked at something that only cats could see.

''Truly?''

Annoyed: ''Yes!''

'’All right.'' Bellatrix said. ''Then cast a patronus and prove that you have no lingering feelings of loyalty towards him. We all know your patronus was a snake. If it still is, after such a transformation Walburga's told me about,'' Abraxas glared at Walburga who shrugged. ''It means you've sided with Voldemort and we cannot trust you with our plan. If it's not,'' Bellatrix scoffed, disbelieving, ''then you're all right.''

 _''How dare you?_ '' Abraxas hissed. He would have gone off to cast a spell on her if Thoros Nott didn't intercept the gesture with a desperate plea.

''Please, don't. Just do as they say. It'll be easier for all of us.'' It was the exhaustion of the longest friend Abraxas had that did it. He gritted his teeth and nodded.

Everyone stepped away to give him room.

Abraxas looked to that place where nothing was and when asked what he was looking at told them briskly that he wanted to concentrate. ''It's hard to cast a patronus.''

Nods all-around said that the congregation gathered around him to witness this spectacle agreed. It wasn't only hard to cast a patronus, but it was hard to allow everyone around him to become privy of a manifestation of his soul's brightest memory.

To cast a corporeal patronus meant that the caster was ready to have his life judged, to have this part of himself open to public viewing and accept the inevitable vulnerability the action demanded. It was a hard decision. Even harder with a Dementor present. Walburga Black was a good enough substitute.

Abraxas whispered hopefully: _''Expecto patronum.''_

From the tip of a wand that was not willow emerged a mesmerizing light that shone bright and blinding. It grew and grew and grew with exceeding magnitude. First it danced around each mage present, whispering to them something cheerful. Next it lingered on Draco, wrapping around his torso and nuzzling ever so briefly in a rare showing of familial love. Lastly it rose up into the sky and shone brighter than the sun above. From its centre cracked one side, from its centre cracked the other side and from each emerged one wing. From above the wings a head made of life formed. From beneath flourished a sea of feathers that no albino peacock in real life could ever sport.

When the peacock patronus landed gently on Abraxas' shoulder he said to them all, with a grin one could only describe as: smug and self-satisfied: ''Has anyone got anything else to add?''

''No.'' Bellatrix said, _angry_. ''I was wrong.''

It was music to Abraxas Malfoy's ears, and he told her this, quite joyfully.

* * *

On their way inside the Manor, Abraxas glanced briefly to the spot where nothing was, but saw Death's crooked face grinning up at him and with her skeletal fingers she gave him two thumbs up.

''That was fun,'' she said. Her wings fluttered as she followed after him.

Abraxas didn't say anything because he was watched by an angry Bellatrix looking hawk.

''If only the previous Hallow Holders asked me to help them with such fun things. I would take lying about a patronus form to world domination any day. I'm starting to think that the previous ones all lacked creativity, dear Abraxas.'' Ever since Alexio's death and the possibility of Tom Riddle's death arriving soon Death acted more fun and less tense about things. Apparently immortals really put a damper on her mood.

''It's good to have you on our side.'' Walburga said, seemingly satisfied with his show out in the garden. She didn't try to enter his mind.

Abraxas crafted better occluemcny shields nonetheless, especially now that he had no more illness to fight and many more secrets to keep.

'' _O-of course, Walbie!''_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Abraxas: I am totally in it to kill Riddle -err - Voldemort -- er love of my life -- err -- that bastard I have complex feelings for --err *looks at Death*  
> Death: *thumbs down*  
> Abraxas, panicked: Aaaaaaaaa


	39. Newspapers and Plans

Rita Skeeter woke up to the beautiful sound of an owl rapping on her bedroom window. She stood up on light, elated feet, tied her sleeping robe, and moved to the window, all while wearing the most pleased smile on her face. This was it. This was the big one, she thought.

Once she opened the window the bird left her the newspaper on the windowsill and waited expectantly to be paid in treats. Rita made sure it was spoiled this fine and victorious day.

This is the highlight of my career. The one I will be forever remembered, the one I'll go down in history for, Rita merrily thought and flipped the newspaper so it wasn't folded anymore.

On the first page read a triumphant title:

**ALBUS DUMBLEDORE COLLUDES WITH GELLERT GRINDELWALD**

In this article lay a detailed explanation how Rita's investigative journalism helped her uncover a covert coup d'état planned by Albus Dumbledore (who was still very much missing, much alike a criminal in hiding would be).

The more she read her brilliance had her magic twisting in tendrils of joy, encasing her bedroom in a web of beautiful pride.

A Phoenix coming from Hogwart's direction was sighted crossing the Channel and going to the imposing and supposed-to-be impenetrable walls of Nurmengard. From the prison, on a Friday in December 1998, escaped Gellert Grindelwald, sighted petting the Phoenix and lovingly whispering to it, much alike how a lover may react to their own lover's pet. Suspiciously enough right around the escape of Gellert Grindelwald, Albus Dumbledore went missing.

Rita couldn't believe her absolute luck. Everything was falling into place. Her greatest piece! She twirled in place, giddily jumping in her bedroom in a rare show of boundless joy. Her automatic quill awoke at the noise and whizzed to her, swirling around her like a dog might around an owner.

In the article Rita went on to say that this was no coincidence, dear readers, and that she had expected this sort of traitorous behaviour from Albus Dumbledore whose past was more hushed up than even You-Know-Who's was. But luckily, Rita had gotten to the bottom of this mystery and was here as a paragon of truth and journalist integrity!

And then,

Rita waved her wand and started up some music from a record player downstairs. Magically the music began, lilting her in a stunning, whimsical waltz of victory. She threw the newspaper up in the sky and danced out of its fall.

Nearing the end of the article,

Rita waved her hands around and summoned a glass into one hand, and a bottle of the best wine she had stashed away in the other. Whilst dancing a jig she filled her glass, not minding if it over spilled around the edges. With the money this edition was going to bring in she could buy herself a brand new house – no, a brand new _status_!

A promise to keep her readers updated on any new developments stood near the end of the article, as well as a date for the official publication of a biography she'd written detailing the messiness of Albus Dumbledore's life.

She topped over the drink and **_screamed_**.

Albus Dumbledore's stellar reputation was over, and it was all thanks to _her_.

Rita set the drink and bottle down and fell back on the bed to stare up at the ceiling. The music began to pick up and up and up. She raised her hands to the air and allowed herself to gloat: ''This is it. This is the pinnacle of my career.'' Lovingly she accioed the newspaper back to her hands and read the last paragraph over and over and over again, growing more elated, more thrilled, filled to the brim by ecstasy coursing through her like rapid currents.

_Rejoice, my readers! The era of Albus Dumbledore's manipulations has come to an end. My upcoming book will detail in graphic and uncensored detail the horrors of his actions. His hands are not as clean as he wishes us all to believe. During his life-time two Dark Lords caused major havoc in the world. I ask you now to think on this question: Is it mere coincidence or is it direct causation that Albus Dumbledore influenced both Gellert Grindelwald and You-Know-Who?_

More would be found in her book. Rita kicked her legs and squealed in absolute, maddening cheer. She crumpled the newspaper with her hands and wondered what _infamy_ felt like?

* * *

People opened their windows to owls and took newspapers in, blearily looking at the owl expecting payment.

People slinked off to their dining room tables and unfolded the newspapers delicately, in routine that had no need to change.

People read, and wasn't that a very, _very_ dangerous thing?

* * *

Another dangerous thing was happening in Malfoy Manor: a conversation about important matters. They'd read the newest Daily Prophet and started a long and arduous plan.

''Forgive me for the repetition, but I fail to see what you mean by your dashing and not-insane plan. Just to summarize, in order to keep up, dear Walbie – ** _You want us to charge the Order_**?'' Abraxas was not all right with any of this, especially not putting his grandson in danger as Walburga wanted to. He sat on a couch with his entire immediate family present. Draco and Narcissa closest to him. Lucius sat on the edge, but still refrained from letting his family out of sight.

''Not charge, _no_. I just want to take back my home and to let them know that we're on their side and that we can all work together to bring Riddle down like a rabid dog ought to have been ages ago.'' Walburga was always full of fun comparisons. Ones that made Abraxas' scar riddled skin prickle distastefully. He hid this behind forced smiles.

Thoros asked: ''We need to contact the Death Eaters then. The Order is destabilized, especially because Albus Dumbledore is missing. He may not be a supporter of Grindelwald, but he is not the saint the Order can pour their trust into anymore.''

''Albus Dumbledore is dead.'' Abraxas fingered the Elder Wand and tried not to let Draco's burning eyes get him down. Narcissa was discreetly coughing into her hand and trying to signal him to shut up.

But Thoros seemed to have pieced it together because he said, quite loudly: ''Are you joking!?''

''Wish that I were.'' Abraxas raised his hands in the air.

Walburga eyed his choice of pocket square most suspiciously and just when she was about to ask why he wore something that clearly didn't fit his style of dress, Thoros pipped up – yet again: ''Are you comfortable with murder now? Is that it? Nobby Leach wasn't enough for you so now you're just going to go all out and start killing prominent and powerful-''

''Oh shut up! It was more like assistance to suicide rather than a true murder.'' Abraxas told himself lies to stay afloat and somewhat sane in this insane world he found himself living in.

''I cannot believe you. I leave you alone for just a moment and you're off killing prominent professors and apparently – I see you – stealing Dumbledore's wand for whatever sick, trophy purpose you may have-''

''I'M MASTER OF DEATH, _ALL RIGHT_!'' Abraxas shouted, because he might as well get this over with and it was a much better alternative than the imaginary one Thoros was thinking up. Though, he really shouldn't blame him, because he was so entrenched in muggle crime fiction. It was one of his secret pastimes he'd made Abraxas promise never to reveal. Agatha Christie was a household name in the Nott household.

''A WHAT NOW?'' Walburga Black joined the conversation.

Abraxas stood up. He showed them the Elder Wand. ''Grindelwald found it first, then Albus got it, and now I have it.''

Lucius was fainting. The rest were asking him questions and if this was how he'd survived death.

''No, no I became in possession of all three Hallows _after_ I resurrected myself.''

''Yourself? Just by your lonesome self, **I see**.'' Walburga passive aggressively let him know that if he didn't credit her for saving his life in the afterlife that she would wrestle him to the ground right now and steal the wand from his grasp.

''Is the pocket square?'' Narcissa tried wrapping her head around this entire idea. She knew, before them all, but nonetheless it continued to confuse her. Of all the people in the world, Abraxas seemed the least likely to carry such responsibility on his shoulders without having set at least three towns on fire.

Abraxas unfurled the pocket square and revealed a gaudy invisibility cloak.

''And the Resurrection Stone?'' Bellatrix asked.

He flashed her the ring on his finger. ''It's also a horcrux.''

This was a lot of dangerous information being passed around.

''Where are the rest of horcruxes?'' Thoros asked. He was of sensible sort and knew to ask sensible questions when the dire need for them arose.

Abraxas kind of had to stop and think in which robe he left a bracelet full of them.

''Dearest Morgana, he left them in a _robe_.''

''It's like watching a woman think back on which purse she left her wallet in…''

''I like to change clothes often, do forgive me for having taste!''

''Find those horcruxes, you absolute madman!''

A bunch of wardrobe raiding montages later Abraxas dangled in front of them a bracelet with charms on it, most of which represented a horcrux. Except for an owl, a snake, and a badger. Those three Abraxas didn't know how to explain. Neither had time for that, what with being in the presence of Voldemort's soul pieces. All of them, except for the original.

Bellatrix raised her wand to the bracelet and said that they should destroy these.

''No, no. _Leverage_.'' Abraxas gripped the bracelet close to his chest and raised the Elder Wand on Bellatrix in reply. ''We need them. It's why he'll come.''

''Where?'' Walburga wrinkled her nose and demanded he explain.

''Well, isn't that what we're doing? We're here to call the Death Eaters and whichever one wants to join us on a man-hunt for Voldemort gets to help us get the Order to listen to us? We need the most ammunition we can get to have THEM trust us. Having the horcruxes and thus,'' Abraxas dangled the bracelet, ''access to Tom Riddle's mortality means we'll be let in. Doesn't the Noble and Most Ancient House THINK?''

Bellatrix lowered her wand, only because Barty urged her to pull it away from Abraxas. ''This is his home. These are his wards. If you attacked him now you wouldn't be able to leave.'' This was true, anyone could enter Malfoy Estate, but few select could leave.

Ted Tonks: ''But how do you get the Death Eaters to join you? Surely you're the outsiders. Everyone else is supportive of You-Know-Who and the regime?''

Lucius inclined his head to agree without totally agreeing. ''The world's a different place. One where this,'' he showed them the mark, ''is a dangerous mark to have. Our options are limited. A fresh start would be good.''

''Ha!'' Andromeda laughed then in their faces. ''You think they are changed people? You think they would look at me and my husband and not want to have us harmed? Please, Lucius, don't be ridiculous.''

''No,'' Thoros allowed, ''but they would work together if we offered them not to have the mark anymore.''

''The only way to avoid it is death. Even if you cut your arm off it would not free you. There was a dissenter in 1972. I tracked her down to Italy and killed her.'' Bellatrix explained. She steepled her fingers, giving Lucius and Thoros a long and valuable look: ''What do you know about removing the mark?''

Lucius cleared his throat and told them about the Quidditch World Cup of 1998 and a man named Maximillian Yaxley whose mark was removed by Lord Voldemort himself.

''I see.'' Bellatrix formulated a plan, her brain moving at speeds unknown to her before now. ''I can work with that.'' Anything that Lord Voldemort could do, Bellatrix vowed, she could do _better_.

''You would work better with the Black library at your disposal.'' Walburga taunted, reminding them that they needed Grimmauld Place before all else.

''You honestly think that Sirius hasn't already stripped the library bare and sold the pieces to museums or whatever fire Dumbledore preferred they be burned in?'' Narcissa wondered, not for the first time acting as the voice of reason.

Walburga tossed this away and said that once they got Grimmauld Place all would be revealed to them, and then, she added: ''Dearest niece, have some trust in your aunt.''

Narcissa smiled. Lucius recognized this smile as one of her sharper ones.

''But how do we get a hold of the Death Eaters?'' Thoros was the first to admit that for the sake of his son's safety he cut all ties with them. Lucius agreed that he, as a man who was not in fact, a willing participant of the war, but solely a victim of the imperius curse, had no ties with them.

Barty coughed not-very-discreetly and looked at Bellatrix. She had a hard look in her eyes, one that thought and thought and thought and concluded.

''I'll call them.''

''You can do that?'' Thoros looked at his mark and then back at Bellatrix, as if seeing her for the first time properly. She cut a powerful figure, even though she was dressed in a preposterous muggle outfit. Rolling off of her in languid swirls was her magic. It was a calmer sort of magic than the one he remembered in the war, but it was, he didn't dare be right, twice as deadly.

''I channelled the magic into calling Barty to my aid. I could do that. You just give me the names of the Death Eaters that you know will come running and I'll do it.''

Lucius and Thoros began listing off people. The requirements were that they had to be alive and out of Azkaban. They came to a very short list in the end.

''So many dead?'' Walburga wrinkled her nose at the list of names she recognized.

''A lot of victimized family members decided to take justice into their own hands.'' Thoros whispered hoarsely, no doubt remembering the horror of living free just after the war had ended. ''It was terrifying.'' Thoros looked to Draco then and remembered his son and why he had not fled the country, away from auror protection and pressure. They'd have hunted him down abroad and killed him.

''It's the price you pay for siding with a megalomaniac.'' Walburga judged, detached from the matter at hand. ''It cannot be helped, after all.''

''You believed in the same things we did and you urged your son to join…'' Thoros challenged. ''Now you pretend to be better than us. Contrary are you?''

''I did not urge Regulus to join the Death Eaters.'' Walburga's voice broke. ''That was his decision and one that you helped him realise. _You_ introduced him to Riddle.''

''I did.'' Thoros admitted. There was no point in lying. ''We were at war and needed forces. Better for someone else to die than I.''

Walburga's murderous eyes locked with Thoros' and she sometimes forgot that he was a Death Eater in every sense of the word. In moments like these, however, she remembered.

''When I call them,'' Bellatrix pulled everyone's attention to the plan, as it was a very important one. Draco noticed that her hands shook for a brief second before stilling firmly. ''and some of them decide to join – which I still think will be null, but I shall not stop your overflowing optimism, gentlemen.'' She laughed and Andromeda snorted alongside her for that. There was nothing gentle about any of the present. Except perhaps Draco who was a baby everyone wanted to protect, but Abraxas was doing the most work as he didn't want to let go of his one and true heir and perfect grandson. ''What will we be called? Is this just another version of the Death Eaters?''

''Well,'' Barty phrased it the best anyone could in that situation, ''I think, since you're summoning them, General,'' he paused and continued after a moment, ''that you ought to be the one that calls the shots?''

''Me?'' Bellatrix wondered. She looked to Thoros, a more experienced Death Eater. At Lucius, a more conniving one of the three. At Walburga, the oldest present and surely the most influential and powerful, having beaten Death in a duel, for goodness' sake!

''Yes,'' Thoros, always a follower, never one to take up followers. ''You would be perfect!''

''Well,'' Walburga thought about interjecting, but it was Abraxas Malfoy's words that cut her off.

''Only those who fought in the war can have a say here. We are not of their world.'' They had unmarked forearms and for that their tongues were cut off for this conversation. Andromeda and Ted and Draco and Narcissa watched, sidelined, like civilians in a war room meeting.

''Precisely. Only you can do it, Bellatrix.'' Lucius said. There was much less responsibility in being a follower.

Bellatrix liked the sound of this. ''Not the Death Eaters, then.''

''No, something else. Something under your management. Something under your design.''

''Yes.''

Bellatrix's eyes sparked to life. They glowed like obsidian sparkled. ''I like that.''

* * *

Igor Karkaroff felt his mark burning in a vivid and beyond excruciating way. He collapsed in his office and clutched his arm to his chest painfully, cursing in a slow but sure flow in his native language.

Severus Snape felt his mark burning in an unimaginable way that he could never liken to Lord Voldemort's power. That was a pull, one that promised pain – this – this now – it was pain and it was wrathful and it _beckoned_. His mother and father surged to their feet to aid him, but all he did was grind his teeth into dust before apparating to its source.

Amycus and Alecto Carrow felt their marks burning in a sort of flaying motion that didn't meet their master's style and could be more described as a true torturer's flair. The marks ordered them to move and move they did, stumbling like wayward souls towards the destination their marks told them.

Zephyr Avery _Junior_ felt his mark slamming into him. His knees fractured by the fall and broken champagne flutes shattered everywhere. His date had been going so well up until that point. Such a shame. Just when he thought he'd put the Death Eater business behind him. He wouldn't be getting a second date from her, no doubt about it.

Crabbe Sr. and Goyle Sr. didn't feel their marks slowly causing them indescribable pain so much as they giddily thought that their lord had come back and wanted to quickly and surely go to his side to be lauded as good Death Eaters.

Gathered together in the illustrious Malfoy Manor had everyone wondering when their lord would show himself to them in his glorious and powerful light. In many of their opinions the world had gone too far with accepting those of non-pure blood. They bided their time and waited excitedly, but it seemed that with this powerful call that the waiting was finally done.

Instead of their lord they saw Bellatrix Lestrange accompanied by Lucius, Thoros, and Barty Jr. They made for a mismatched picture. Not the kind you would expect to see in a Manor as fine as this. No, that picture looked more like it would be hanged in a children's finger-painting art show.

''Bellatrix?'' The Death Eaters addressed the highest ranking Death Eater.

''Hello.'' Bellatrix greeted coolly.

''You've escaped prison…'' Igor congratulated, because that was what he felt was an appropriate course of action.

''Obviously.'' Severus Snape always preferred to have his condescension known. He still nursed the left-over pain throbbing in his mark. His arm covered it and held it as one would put pressure over an open wound. There was no blood.

The arrangement of their standing put Bellatrix in the centre. Thoros and Lucius stood on her left whereas Barty stood on her right side.

''Why are we here?'' Alecto asked Bellatrix. The first to piece together that there was something wildly different than what they expected. Amycus nodded along.

Crabbe and Goyle stood silent, because it was always better not to charge out with stupid things to say. Stupid things, they learned, usually led to the cruciatus curse. Or at least a very, very disappointed Dark lord who couldn't believe people like them existed.

Bellatrix didn't answer right away. She moved to circle them all and gestured that they could sit down. ''If Lucius won't be an agreeable host then, please, you have my permission to sit.''

Lucius flushed in embarrassment at that. ''Please, do not stand around in my home. Take a seat, would you like a drink?'' A tray with crumpets and tea materialized with a pop as an elf came in and popped out. Like the perfect host Lucius gestured to the tea. Or did he gesture like a perfect poisoner? Their lord was dramatic and in the latter years of his life made less and less sense. But surely he wouldn't kill them all? Perhaps he was just going to weed out the weak?

Barty Crouch Jr. didn't look how they'd last seen him. Obviously he'd aged out of his teen years, but the robe he wore was distinctly akin to something they'd see Abraxas Malfoy wear. Last season, of course, because he wouldn't dare part with his favourite robes.

Their minds crossed over from robes to Abraxas Malfoy to wards. Surrounded by them set their nerves aflame. Because the wards used on the Malfoy Estate were distinctly Malfoy-sque. Thieves could go in and steal whatever they liked, but no thief had ever escaped. Were they thieves? Had they displeased their master and he summoned them all to Malfoy Manor to make sure they could not escape?

Everyone watched what Severus Snape would do, as he was the closest of the newly summoned Death Eaters that belonged in their lord's inner circle. When he took a seat everyone followed suit.

''What is the meaning of this?'' Amycus asked this time. No answers came forward.

Zephyr Avery Junior went for a crumpet, because he was a tad tipsy and needed to combat the champagne he'd drunk.

Igor tapped his fingers against the chair he sat in and waited expectantly for something to happen. This was strange. The Manor was silent. No peafowl caw alerted them. The sun that brightly shone outside died dead here, dressing them all in a coat of immediate darkness.

Lucius bowed slightly at the tone of his guests and said that they would find out soon enough and that they needn't be afraid.

Bellatrix informed them: ''There's been a change in management.'' The call of the mark was not the call of Lord Voldemort.

They drank the tea, but warily. All of that wariness meant nothing in the face of the veritaserum nestled neatly in the compounds of the tea. A familiar face like Lucius' was all indication they needed to know that he would never pull something – they all remembered him as one of their own. Alas, they did not know that he would do more for his family than anyone present was capable.

As veritaserum loosened their tongues and their brains in appropriate measure Thoros asked a question: ''How have you been?''

''Better than you, you bloody traitor.'' Amycus did not forget that Thoros had sold all information he had on the Death Eaters. ''I bet you've got a **telephone** and are a slave to muggle _wiles_. Sell out!''

Thoros couldn't stop a snort from forming, no matter how much he wanted to. It was just better than him. ''No, I'm not nearly as technologically savvy as you seem to think so…'' he chuckled, ''Up until recently I had no idea how to pick up a telephone.''

''There's night classes for that sort of thing now.'' Amycus snarled.

''Yes, the muggles are overtaking our society like a plague.'' Alexto added, shuddering.

The late nineties were a time when learning about muggle society took precedence. Everyone was holding classes on this and that, seeing that during Hogwarts no one had learned a single thing that could actually HELP them understand muggle society. Nobody, not even muggleborns, knew how the post system worked in their world.

Barty was talking to Avery about birds. Because Zephyr Avery Sr. was the founder of the ornithologist club at Hogwarts during the 1940s and had actually gotten Tom Riddle to join his then VERY unpopular club. The bird mania was inherited by Avery Jr. and Barty, always a sucker for small talk, found himself trapped in a long talk about the difference between ravens and crows.

Bellatrix asked simply, leisurely, nonchalantly even! ''What have you been up to these past years?''

''Keeping a low profile. This world is turning upside down. When our Lord returns we will cleanse it.'' Alecto and Amycus replied. Their ideas didn't differ much. Both believed that the world deserved to be run by a pure presence and anything else needed purging, as their Dark Lord demanded.

Igor asked everyone if their mark was as vivid as his. Everyone said that 'yes, as a matter of fact, it looks exactly how it did in its prime'. This was peculiar.

''Would you say that having the mark of the Dark Lord on your skin has made life difficult for you after the war?'' Lucius asked, speaking like the politician he wanted to be, but couldn't because of the mark on his arm. He made sure to stand so everyone could see it and think about the implications their actions have wrought them.

Igor nodded and said that he hated the mark, that he hated to be limited like this in his life. ''I've moved on.''

Alecto sneered: ''Well I very well haven't. Those filthy creatures are encroaching on our territory.''

''Yes, indeed. What's next? Muggle studies being compulsory?''

''Who even needs a telly-vision?'' Crabbe Sr. shouted, outraged.

Thoros Nott, an ardent lover of soap operas, had a lot of things to say on the matter of televisions, but didn't because people didn't need to know about his secret pastimes.

A few more rounds of talk about how muggles were completely wrong and mudbloods needed to be exiled led to three individuals (Avery, Igor, and Severus) accepting that their day to day lives would go much smoother if they weren't marked.

''I could have so many more eligible bachelorettes to date. The ones I can date now are all the type of women you expect _want_ to date a known Death Eater.'' Avery rolled his eyes and shuddered. ''Those are not Zephyr material, thank you.''

Bellatrix finally confessed: ''It was I that summoned you. ''

''Damn I knew it hurt like an absolute bitch for a reason.'' Avery whispered and rubbed at his forearm.

Not giving that the time of day, Bellatrix continued speaking. She explained that in this day and age they needed to adapt to the world in order to prosper. Amycus and Alecto grimaced, but didn't dare interrupt. For this Bellatrix thanked the siblings mentally and resumed her detailed and organized plan of forming a new, much smaller organization. They wouldn't adhere to Death Eater notions and policies, as those never even existed during the initial founding and were more focused on just seizing power in a convoluted and impractical way. No, now they had to fight by not fighting.

''I thought Lucius was the politician,'' Goyle Sr. sneered. Crabbe Sr. snorted into his hand which he tried to pass off as a cough. It was a failed attempt.

''We have three goals in mind. First on the agenda is to deliver You-Know-Who to the Order to have the deal with him.''

''You want us to betray our Lord!'' This was apparently a line that was crossed that for Crabbe and Goyle Sr. could never be crossed. ''This is an outrage!''

''Wait, wait, surely you don't expect us to collaborate with _Dumbledore_?''

''Dumbledore's all right. He helped Grindelwald escape prison, after all. Maybe he's finally seen sense.'' Avery drawled and fetched another crumpet.

Nods all around. ''Yes, I suppose. That came as a bloody turnaround, though.''

Amycus shouted: ''Alecto and I will never collaborate with the Order! You cannot expect any of us to do this.''

''Yes, this is precisely what I expect those who join me to do.'' Bellatrix informed them.

The tension rose. Wands became just a tad closer to their hands.

''I will not.'' Crabbe Sr. stood up. ''This goes against everything I stand for.''

Goyle Sr., as he never thought much for himself, stood up as well. ''Same!''

''This is one agenda… what are the others?'' Severus asked.

Bellatrix moved so she loomed above him. She placed her hands on his shoulders and kept the spy down. Well aware, after speaking to Abraxas about many matters, that this was a man who had access to the Order. ''The mark's removal. Grimmauld Place is packed with books that not even Riddle had access to. I will personally work to get rid of our marks. Not everyone's of course, simply those who swear their fealty to me.'' She gestured to Thoros, Lucus, and Barty.

Igor surged first: ''If you swear that you will remove our marks without damaging our magic then I swear fealty to your cause, Bellatrix.''

''What's the third agenda?'' Zephyr Avery Jr. swayed in his seat and raised his brows in anticipation for something very good. ''What's the cherry on to _p_?'' He popped the p.

''Surviving.'' Bellatrix smiled. ''Those who swear fealty will survive today. Those that don't will be eliminated as they know too much.''

Silence. Terrible, frightened silence.

That was broken by a very meandering individual.

''Ever heard of obliviation?'' Avery wondered.

''Ever wonder about why people usually drop you after two dates?'' Bellatrix returned.

Zephyr Avery Jr. was the same age as Lucius and therefore had gone to Hogwarts with both Lucius and Bellatrix. She was older than them both, but he'd been an insufferable admirer that snagged one minute in the Forbidden Forest with her on a dare and ever since that point in time thought that Bellatrix was in love with him all because she'd given him a pity first kiss.

''Hey, at least I've got all my marbles. What you did to Fawley's beyond insane.'' Bellatrix's hands clasped into tight fists. Avery went on: ''If that's what you do to your friends I don't want to know what you do to your enemies. Dearest gods.''

''Let's leave Fawley and Longbottom out of this conversation. They have nothing to do with it.'' Lucius, surprisingly, came to his sister-in-law's rescue. It was sweet how much he cared for his wife to honour her sister like this.

''I've got a son.'' Crabbe interrupted. ''Please, don't kill me. I don't want to join the Order, but – but you can't kill me. My son's 18!''

Thoros Nott would have done everything to see his son grow up and grow old. Crabbe's reluctance to jump ship irritated him. ''You selfish worm,'' he murmured.

''For your fucking information, **_Junior_**.'' Bellatrix moved so she was next to Avery. ''It was war time and Fawley had chosen her side. What I did was what any of us would have done. Anything else is a sign of weakness. It was kill or be killed then.'' Then a smile. ''Now, though, we don't have to resort to such measures. My good will to overlook your comments should be incentive enough for you to realise that being on my side is the only course of action.''

''Gee.'' Avery sarcastically said. ''I feel so safe.''

''We want a chance to fight for our lives.'' Amycus said. Alecto agreed. They would not joint. ''You've all gone mad and we respect that. Azkaban must have drained all your common sense, but you're a dueller and a hunter. Give us a chance to fight.''

Bellatrix asked if anyone else felt similarly to how the Carrows did. Crabbe and Goyle did.

Severus, Avery, and Igor decided that honesty? As far as they were concerned Voldemort could go and die.

To those that wanted to fight for their lives, Bellatrix opened the door leading to the Malfoy Garden and told them they had a five minute head start. Thinking this was barely enough time to try and escape, the Death Eaters rushed out.

* * *

Draco Malfoy found himself surrounded by a muster of peahens and peacocks that cawed at him like worried aunts and uncles would. He ruffled their feathers gently and they pushed into his palms for more. Draco apologised when one cawed right near his ear: ''I've only two hands!''

A blue peacock fluttered his wings and landed on Draco's shoulders, toppling him down. ''Nigel! Bad bird! Bad!''

''Nigel's at it again. Draco, he's missed you, dear heart. Do give him some love.'' Narcissa sipped at her wine and lounged on a sunbed. There were a bunch of those in the artificially warm spot in the garden. Enchanted to not let the actual temperature through, otherwise everyone present would have to have winter jackets ready.

Abraxas was off to the side with Walburga, talking in hushed tones so no one could overhear them. At the screaming emanating from where his peafowls were he chanced a glance, saw Draco and Nigel, and ordered: ' _'Arrêtez_.''

Obediently the peacock stopped pouncing on Draco, but then decided to go over to Abraxas for more attention. He picked up the big bird and held it in his lap as he sat and spoke to a beffudled Walburga Black.

''It's odd to see you with so many of them.''

There were a good few dozen peafowls around. Abraxas pat Nigel and heard him croon in delight.Flocon de Neige emerged from the muster to go to Abraxas and demand he be paid the attention he deserved. This was an outrage, the bird thought and jealously cawed at Nigel to leave. Nigel cawed back, angrily.

Abraxas sighed a sigh a man with this many peafowls only knew to sigh. He handed Nigel to Walburga, who was quite unaccustomed to petting such giant birds. Next he took Flocon de Neige and planted him in his lap.

Flocon de Neige's albino white feathers were the same shade of white as Abraxas' hair was.

''You match.'' Walburga noted.

Abraxas grinned a wide and happy smile at that. He looked to his best bird and said: ''Look, Flocon de Neige, we match!'' He pulled a lock of hair next to the bird's white feathers to compare.

Flocon de Neige had no idea what was happening as he was but a simple bird, although seeing his master as very happy and without any coughing fits caused him to caw in hurrah.

Nigel bit Walburga's lock of hair and kept it tightly in his beak.

''AH! Abraxas, get it off of me!''

''Nigel! Nigel, Arrêtez!''

Nigel tugged at the lock of hair.

''It's going to eat me!''

''No, no it won't. I've fed them. Don't worry.''

''That was said more for the sake of him eating my hair, but I don't like your implication that these things will eat me literally!''

''They're _omnivores_ , Walburga. Hunger will push anyone overboard. Besides, they're trained! You have nothing to worry about. They don't attack to kill unless prompted by my order or if I'm in danger.''

Narcissa looked at the mess unfolding in front of her and had to tell herself that she and her son were doing all right, all things considered.

''Draco,'' Narcissa said, sensing that Andromeda and Ted were inching towards leaving, ''why don't you go visit your aunt Andy.''

Hearing the order in his mother's words, Draco accepted.

Andromeda, Draco, and Ted went gone back to Tonks residence solely because they did not want to be witness to a crime scene. A deserved one, but criminal notwithstanding.

Around that time the doors to Malfoy Manor swung open and a bunch of Death Eaters scattered like mice running away from a prowling cat.

Alecto Carrow fell when a skull splitting spell hit the back of her head. She sprawled on the snow, outside the sunny perimeter.

Amycus Carrow fell after his killing curse missed and Barty's cutting hex got his throat. He collapsed in a sea of his own blood.

Crabbe Sr. fell , but surprisingly enough Goyle Sr. seemed to survive long enough to reach Abraxas Malfoy and point his wand at his face, demanding: ''Drop the wards, Lord Malfoy.'' Ever polite, these Death Eaters. Abraxas blinked cautiously at the man and asked why he ought to do that.

''Because – because they'll kill me!'' Goyle Sr. pressed his wand against Abraxas' throat and ignored everyone else. Not that Walburga and Narcissa were making any sudden movements to help Abraxas.

Lucius, Thoros, Barty, and Bellatrix neared like wolves cornered prey.

Caught up in his attempt to save his own life, Goyle Sr. did not notice how the present peafowls seemed to regard him as a threat. They cocked their heads to the side and cawed loudly, wondering what to do. Abraxas was not making any signals or saying any orders.

''If you kill me,'' Abraxas slowly explained, ''the wards will sizzle off, but by the time it will take you to kill me and apparate – Bellatrix will have shot you three times. Lower your wand, rethink your position, and do the right thing. Not many people get asked to do the right thing, you know. It's quite an honour.''

Some people couldn't be reasoned with and this was something that had to be accepted.

Goyle Sr. moved to swipe his wand through the air and because he never could master advanced magic, had to speak the incantation. Coupled with adrenaline and anxiety, this gave enough time for Abraxas, a man that knew how to speak French fast (this was a difficult skill), to give an order: ' _'Mangeons_.''

Nigel and Flocon de Neige pounced on Goyle Sr.

He let out a gut-wrenching, blood-curdling scream.

The rest of the peacocks and peahens joined, snapping and kicking at the shaking figure of Goyle Sr.

Abraxas watched for a few seconds more and gave the order: ''Arrêtez!''

The peafowls receded and turned their attention back to their master. Worriedly they surrounded him and until he pat every single one of them to tell them he was all right they didn't stop their symphony of caws.

Bellatrix gagged at the sight of what remained of Goyle Sr. and fired off a killing curse, if only to cut his misery short. She remembered the threat Abraxas had posed her before 1981, wherein she was supposed to be devoured by his peafowls and thought that that threat wasn't as inane as she first thought.

''You called them off?'' Walburga's words muffled because she kept a hand across her mouth to stop herself from gagging. The sheer power of their number and how little time it'd taken them until they'd pecked past Goyle Sr.'s skin and drawn blood and continued to peck even further until bone peeked out at some places… Lady Black shuddered.

''Oh yes. Of course I called them off, Walbie'' Abraxas said, as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world: ''I told you I'd already fed them berries and insects. There was no need for them to overeat. It's quite unnecessary.''

Avery Jr., Severus Snape, and Igor Karkaroff exited Malfoy Manor at some point and found their way to where everyone was. By their pallor they arrived a tiny bit before Bellatrix killed Goyle Sr.

''This is it?'' Walburga shouted, sizing everyone present up. Ted and Andromeda and Draco she tallied mentally. ''This is our band of merry misfits?''

''Apparently.'' Abraxas drawled. ''We're going to charge the Order with them?''

Walburga raised her arms in the air and groaned: ''Again with charging! No, Abraxas, we're going to walk in!''

''Just walk in?''

''Yes!''

''Just like that?''

''YES!''


	40. Dis(Order)

A Death Eater was most likely related to or knew of a Knight of Walpurgis. Avery Jr. knew that his father Avery Sr. had a blind devotion towards their lord and was the first Knight. The details remained uncertain and mystified, but Avery Jr. knew that his father was in a very dark place of self-identity (as most young men who were wrongly called young miss were) and that young Lord Voldemort, who went under a name that shall never be uttered, had no social life outside of class and mostly bribed the knights by doing them favours and making them indebted to him. Avery Sr. said that their lord was particularly good at making illegal potions that helped one with self-identity management, but everyone believed that he was making Avery Sr. absinthe in the forest (not forbidden then, only mildly disallowed).

Everyone that was related to a Knight knew that their lord would never be caught dead near alcohol unless he was particularly sad – but young Dark Lords did not feel anything other than rage and political manipulation so that absinthe claim sounded incredibly fake already. Except the Knights would tell their children that there really was someone making absinthe in the forest and that that someone was close to their lord.

''Who?'' Avery Jr. remembered asking because he enjoyed hearing about his father's Hogwarts experience (it was unique yet similar for every generation)

Avery Sr. shrugged, because honestly he didn't remember and it was such a long time ago. ''Some Ravenclaw if I recall.''

Years later Avery Jr. lazed on a couch in Malfoy Manor and said: ''Were you ever told stories about how our lord was supposed to lead us to a new world where mudbloods and everyone politically opposing our pureblood agenda got snuffed out? Or was that just my father?''

''My parents couldn't care less about him. Walburga inspired in them fear that if they praised a halfblood she would go into their homes to kill them and take us away to live with her and uncle Orion. I remember my mother once called her worse than the mythological beast Gryla.''

''I see.'' Avery Jr. said. He called for an elf and got a glass of whisky to drink. After he downed it he vanished it.

Bellatrix stood, because sitting around was for people who didn't have things on their minds. Or at least didn't have things that Bellatrix had on her mind.

* * *

Meanwhile a conversation was going on upstairs.

Walburga was talking to Severus about Order members and found something distressing out. ''It's a setback.'' She said, forcing herself to believe her words. ''Nothing more.''

''I would not call Augusta and Neville Longbottom joining the Order a setback, Lady Black.'' Severus said slowly.

''Don't.'' Walburga raised her hand to silence him. ''I need to think. Does Bellatrix know?''

''I believe I've mentioned it.''

* * *

Bellatrix paced and formulated plans. In order for the Order to trust them (specifically her and Barty) they needed something more tangible to offer them as a peace treaty than the horcruxes.

Barty apparated to the room with a resounding crack and took notice of his general's anxious demeanour. Barty knew what this was about even before Avery opened his mouth to say that this was how they'd made their bed and that they ought to lie in it. He wasn't an idiot, after all. He was quite smart. One of the smartest little Death Eater recruits.

Bellatrix Black and Barty Crouch knew deep down inside that when they merged sides with the Order they would be singled out the most because their crimes were – well, let's be perfectly honest their crimes were not the most repulsive or the most vile of all war crimes ever committed, but they were the most well remembered. Because unlike the rest of the war criminals, they'd been too busy getting arrested to cover up their crime.

''Listen to me.'' Barty approached, reproachfully. ''General.''

Bellatrix didn't. She had her brows furrowed and the lush fluffy carpet underneath her was being imbedded by her sharp and frequent steps.

Avery Jr. asked: ''Bet you're not keen on seeing the Longbottom. Can't blame you. If I'd done what you have – to Fawley of all people, Bellatrix, dearest Morgana.''

Barty's wand was on his throat before Bellatrix had thought to take hers out and attack. She blinked at her right hand man and made a small 'o' shaped mouth.

''Like you've not done anything in the war?''

''Nothing so hideous.'' Avery snarled. ''It's crossing the absolute line. You made them go insane!'' He turned to Bellatrix who had inhaled deeply and clenched her hands into tight, unrelenting fists. ''They were purebloods! _Sacred Twenty-Eight_ , Bellatrix. You don't act like that to Twenty-Eight. It's – they're not like mudbloods and squibs and creatures – you don't do that sort of thing to _people_!''

''Ah **Junior** ,'' Barty crooned, noticing that Bellatrix's Azkaban tremors riddled her now. He could see that she remembered the cold and the darkness and that night leading up to her arrest. ''Do you ever think about your words before you open your mouth?''

''I will not be threatened by some silly child-''

''This _adult_ , thank you very much, is as equally culpable in the Longbottom interrogation as Bellatrix. So, if you've got anything to say to Bellatrix you will say it to me.''

Avery Junior gently and quietly pulled away Barty's wand from his throat and said: ''It was easy for you. You just turned yourself off and did a job. You, _Junior_ ,'' Avery Jr. relished in calling someone else Junior, ''had no history with the victims. I'd like to see you torture someone you cared about with the cruciatus curse.''

Barty's resolve wavered only slightly as he looked to Bellatrix, who had sunk her nails into her skin deeply. Her eyes glazed over and Barty slid to her side to see if she needed him. He chanced a glance into her mind, having been taught rudimentary legiliemency and occlumency during the war, and saw Azkaban and saw that night unfolding terribly, saw Bellatrix, mad with love and devotion for a lord that would later betray them all, demanding answers. Their marks had burned that night in fervour and pain as much as their lord (not anymore, not anymore) had anguished.

Avery Jr. straightened up while sitting, to look like a proper Lord Avery, as his own father had died in Azkaban from a Kiss and later neglect. ''I'd like to see you use the cruciatus curse on your best friend until she broke.''

Barty turned around from Bellatrix to hotly reply, when Bellatrix moved for the first time since getting sucked into a cycle of those bad memories. She grasped hold of the couch and loomed above Avery Jr. ''Say that again.''

Avery Jr. did not let Bellatrix get under his skin, mostly because he was one of those entitled gentlemen who preferred to be under someone's skin. This jarred him. ''I'd like to see you use the cruciatus curse on your best friend until she and her husband broke?''

''Cruciatus curse,'' Bellatrix blinked like one of those debutant girls, like she had blinked when she was a debutant girl, ''you think I used the _cruciatus curse_ to break them?''

Barty opened his mouth and actually got this far: ''Bellatrix, are you su-'' before Bellatrix cut him off.

''Do you know what the cruciatus curse is, _Zephyr Avery Junior_?'' The invocation of his full name sent chills down Avery Jr.'s spine. It was powerful when one knew your name. It couldn't bind you like if a fairy knew it, but when a witch as powerful and unstable as Bellatrix knew it – it was nearly as worrisome and dangerous.

She waited, expectantly. Barty trialed off to the side and sat, watching Avery.

''It's one of the unforgivables.''

''It is the _greatest_ torture curse ever designed for the sole reason because it leaves the victims in a constant state of lucidity and _awareness_. You were not there that night. Rod was. Rab was. Little Barty here was _. I was_.'' She slipped her hand from the couch and slammed her open palm damnably hard against Avery's chest, causing him to hit the couch back and stare at Bellatrix. ''A person cannot break from the cruciatus curse because that would defeat the point of such a curse even existing.''

''Forgive me for the plebeian language, Bellatrix,'' Avery Junior smiled with all of his teeth just as sharply as Bellatrix smiled with her rotted ones, ''but how the fuck did you go about cursing the Longbottoms into insanity?''

Barty spoke then: ''Surely you know the words of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, Avery?''

Avery Jr. blinked rapidly and in a confused manner. He turned from Barty and asked: ''Toujours pur?''

''The other ones, love.'' Bellatrix laughed, pushing her hands through Avery's hair, which to him felt like needles piercing his skull one prick at a time.

''Mind magic is Black magic...'' Avery whispered, horrified at the realisation. ''You conducted mind magic on them… the cruciatus , oh that was just a lovely bonus for you- wasn't it?''

Bellatrix tightened her hold on his hair and whispered: ''I don't like your tone, Junior. Do you think I need you particularly?''

''You wouldn't have summoned me if you didn't need me.'' Avery challeneged.

Bellatrix narrowed her eyes and said that she could kill him after he ran out of use, so at least he should be mindful not to agitate her into giving him a slow and painful demise. Sprinkled ever so gently with cruciatus curses.

''Well,'' Avery Jr. said, ''how can I argue with that.''

Bellatrix fumed at the way his irritating behaviour reminded her of Hogwarts and when things were all right. Back when there were no sides except Purebloods and Not. Back when girls stuck together and weren't torn into opposites sides of War because of ideals that they believed in wholeheartedly. Bellatrix was ready to die for her lord (not hers, never hers anymore) whereas Fawley was ready to die for her husband (that lovestruck fool that screamed for them to spare her in their last coherent moments)

''Though!'' Avery Jr. stood up from the couch and wrinkled out his robes, ''I have a question for you.''

''How I could ever attack Fawley and her husband? How I'm a monster?''

''Oh no, nothing so juvenile. I see the error in my ways, Bellatrix. Those questions only tick you off. This question, I hope, will bring out something new for me to look at: isn't it true that _all_ mind magic can be reversed by a Black? Or, at least a couple of Blacks?''

Barty Junior, if his account of the events could be believed, swore he saw Bellatrix smiling happily at something Avery Junior said.

* * *

Walburga broke down this lovely shindig by exclaiming (as this was her usual form of communication) : "EVERYBODY ROUND UP! There is information to be learned that we did not know beforehand- Snivel – Severus, do tell.''

Severus Snape looked like a man that was reminded of hating Sirius Black and wondering where he could have possibly gotten all of that dramatic behaviour from, all to finally learn the answer to that searing, burning question.

''It's going to be easiest to strike tomorrow because Moody and most of the Ministry personnel will be – well, at work.''

''Work?'' Walburga Black couldn't fathom such a thing.

Neither Abraxas Malfoy nor Lucius was in sight. They would be told later.

''Who will be at Grimmauld Place then?''

''Children turned adults. Weasleys. Augusta Longbottom. Hermione Granger.''

''Yes, the girl.'' Walburga said that she watched Hermione from time to time when she watched Voldemort with Death. ''She's a genius, that one.'' Walburga told them more about what she saw, how she saw Lord Voldemort impersonating an ex-pat American scholar of his own creation. How he taught that girl how to duel and how to make extremely hard to make potions, all while they debated theory and even touched upon the notion of immortality.

Draco, slowly began to realise that that awkwardly dressed American was Lord Voldemort and had come to his rescue from being hungover and looked at him as if worried he'd been bitten – why would he be worried, Draco thought and then remembered that Alexio had asked him if he was Abraxas Malfoy's grandson, grandson of the man whom Voldemort loved. His head swam with newfound information and he had to go excuse himself.

''Are you praising this mudblood, Walburga?'' Igor inquired.

''We thought of Voldemort as such, as well, and we praised him to the ends and back.''

''Yes, but is the girl some sort of heir or secret pureblood for her to be so good at magic?''

Thoros answered. ''No, I think it's just her innate ability to work extremely hard to achieve her goals. Dumbledore's Golden Girl, Brightest Witch of her Age – our Lord's apprentice.''

Mutters scattered all around. None of them were used to this sort of thing.

''Cissa, darling, go see if that son of yours needs to talk to somebody. He looks like the wind could knock him over.''

''I'm giving him some space, Auntie.''

''Fair enough. Fair enough.''

Bellatrix raised her hand because it was she that was supposed have people raise their hands to speak to her, not the other way around (though, Walburga Black commandeered every room she found herself in and it was just something stronger than she could manage)

''Yes, Bellatrix?''

''Barty and I are going to pop off for a bit. Don't leave without us.''

''We wouldn't dare.'' Walburga assured her.

Barty got his wand, grabbed hold of Bellatrix's hand, and they disapparated together.

* * *

Whilst everyone was busy organizing and preparing (now that they had a concrete number of Not-Death-Eaters) Lucius found himself alone with his father. They were in one of the empty guest rooms.

''You asked to see me...'' Lucius spoke first for a change.

The mattress of the bed dipped as Abraxas sat on it and crossed his legs. He gave Lucius a careful look over. ''I would call this overdue, Lucius.''

Lucius knitted his brows together. He gulped down a ball of dreadful anxiety that had lodged in his throat and refused to budge. Only a slightly exaggerated and awkward cough made it slide down into his stomach where, hopefully, his stomach acid might lend itself useful and devour his unease.

It didn't. That was not how a human body worked.

''Sit down.'' Abraxas waved his hand and from a nearby desk slid a chair behind Lucius and nudged at him to sit down on it. He did, obliging his father.

Lucius pressed his hands together on his lap and carefully ironed his robes with his sweaty palms. His back was straight and proper, as it had to be. He avoided locking eyes with his father because his gaze was always more intense than his, both of them having silver eyes notwithstanding. He knew that he had gaps of memory when he was in his formative years because it was easier to obliviate a child than to let him know how little his father cared for him. Lucius' mother had told him that Abraxas, during the 1960s, was infinitely worse than he usually was – and then added that those memories weren't to be wondered about.

Sometimes he did wonder what Abraxas truly thought of him. Where that negativity had come from and was there ever a chance of them coexisting peacefully or was Lucius always to disappoint him...

Abraxas, too, avoided eye contact. He wrung his hands together and unwound them frequently. His foot tapped against the floor. ''Before we go over there to the Order, I feel like we should have a talk.''

''Mh.'' Lucius made a strangled sort of sound in the back of his throat.

Abraxas leaned forward and placed his elbows on his knees. ''I feel like some things need to be addressed first. You were planned by everyone _except_ **_me_**. My definition of a life was to wait until I was well and truly ready to do my duties to the Malfoy Famille – like Thoros! He waited until he was ready to be a parent and now he's a good one. It's not my fault.''

Lucius heard 'not my fault' and heard the accusation 'it's yours'. He wondered what Narcissa was up to. What Walburga had wrangled her into doing. Perchance she'd gone to Andromeda's? He wanted her here. Abraxas continued talking. He _needed_ her here.

''Yvette,''

''You never told me why you hate her.'' Lucius said.

Abraxas fixed him with a withered glare. He spoke the words now that the portrait was gone and his home was _his_ : ''She sent a killing curse at me, but my father, the grandfather you were robbed of, intercepted it. Then she made me vow never to speak of it until her death.'' Louder, angrier, as if this was all Lucius' fault: ''That terrible woman loved you. The way she held you made me sick to my stomach because you were it – and then later – later when I saw you excelling where I didn't I knew that you were her favoured child. The way her portrait would look at you from time to time, ever so pleased with herself and what she'd made. Controlling woman. Finally, you fit her ideal fantasy of what a Malfoy was supposed to be. You even married a Black like I was supposed to.''

''That-'' Lucius wouldn't stand for slander (good thing he was sitting down), ''I married Narcissa because I loved her. Not because anyone hinted at me or urged me. How dare you speak like that?'' His tone was quiet and controlled because it had to be. Because he was too tired to duel his father if he thought that he'd gone too far. Abraxas was more fey than him. Temperamental. Unpredictable.

It had made for a difficult childhood. Adolescence. Adulthood. Life.

''You cannot blame me for that.'' Lucius said. The air of doing something right, of being involved in partisan things (which quite distinctly differed from his usual business), of seeing his family all back together once more caused him to speak up.

Abraxas levelled their eyes together and locked them in place, disallowing Lucius to look away by sheer will alone and intentional magic. Lucius refused to yield. ''You cannot, father. It's wrong and ... it's weak!''

''Weak? You don't know anything about weakness.'' Abraxas didn't stand up and Lucius didn't know what to think of it. By now they'd have already brandished wands and exchanged spells. He looked to find Abraxas' wand and couldn't. Possibly hidden away up a sleeve. ''You don't know anything about me.''

''How,'' Lucius tried, ''how could I when all you tell me about yourself is how better off you'd be without me as an heir? You don't think it hurts when you love Draco and don't even offer a smidgeon of your affection to me? Because it does. It hurts. It would hurt more if you hated him, then I think that Narcissa would never let you near him, but somehow it sears right into my heart to know that you can love and that you do love , but that you have no love for me.''

Abraxas listened, he let Lucius have this bare minimum.

''Even Severus!''

''To be fair, Lucius, his mother did make me vow to take care of her son and be his magical connection. He grew on me, yes, but it's so easy to grow fond of someone who's not your direct relative.''

''Why?'' Lucius raised his arms in the air and broke that perfect picture of poised aristocracy, ''Why do you hate me? What did I ever do to you aside from having Yvette like me – I don't even remember her! She died when I was one! So –so what if -''

''You're _better_ than me.'' Abraxas confessed, silencing Lucius' spiralling spiel, ''You're better than me in every sense of the word. I liked you at first, don't think I didn't. My son. A child. Goodness. It was,'' a small glimpse of tears forming in Abraxas' eyes, ''it was such an honour to be a father. One that I hadn't asked for nor wanted so soon, but one that knowingly I would have to be honoured. I was ready to defend you every step of the way. I was ready to fight for your rights and to make you feel as safe and happy as possible.''

Lucius felt like his form was petrified as he sat and listened to his father. His own eyes brimmed with tears.

''But you didn't need me to do that. Not in the sense I expected you to.'' Abraxas admitted, laughing, voice cracking. He looked away, looked at his shoes, then his hands which he turned over to look over closely.

''What do you mean?''

''I scored higher than Tom Riddle on our Arithmancy NEWTs and it was the first time in my life that I felt like I could stand on my two feet properly. That's, what? Seventeen years of feeling completely inferior to my peers... yes, I do believe so. Still felt inferior, but at least I had something going for me. At least numbers didn't jump around and make me out to be a fool. I didn't even know I was dyslexic until 1968 when they forced me to rehab – oh do stop flinching yes it's undignified yes, I went to a muggle facility –yes I met Larry there – oh right, wait, you don't know about Larry Lazarus. Muggle man, helped me knock down some prejudiced walls in my mind. Don't ask questions. This isn't about Larry – it's about us.''

''All right.''

''Good. You see, Lucius, I watched you grow up and you were perfectly ordinary, perfectly all right. No signs to watch out for – nothing. _You were what I wasn't_. You were so uncomplicated it was admirable. A girl from a brilliantly pure family married you. You love each other! That's so peculiar to me! You actually love your wife and she loves you back! You have a son that's both smart _and_ kind. You've done so well for yourself and your family. You're happy, Lucius. It's much more than I can ever say for myself.''

''That was no excuse to be horrible to me.'' Lucius said, incredibly slowly, as if he himself finally came to terms with the fact. He had wondered for ages for his father's behaviour towards him, and now with this information presented to him in form of a self-loathing man, it became evident that his father was not worthy of being held up on a pedestal. That people made choices and they had to live with them and that excuses were sometimes inexcusable.

''Do you know what a difficult childhood I had? A difficult life altogether, truly! Yvette had plans and ideas for me. She had expectations that I was not meeting. And then,'' painful, gut-wrenching laughter, ''I saw _you_ meeting _every **single** one_ of her expectations growing up. You did everything I couldn't. You had everything I didn't. You were the perfect Malfoy heir. I wasn't. I'm this,'' Abraxas shuddered as he looked at himself and sneered, ''this,'' he struggled to find the words self-deprecating enough to successfully carry his point across, ''this-''

''Abraxas,'' Lucius whispered and it must have been because this was the first time Lucius had addressed Abraxas by his name instead of title that had the older Malfoy snapping to look at him, his attention jagged and unwavering, ''you tried so hard to sabotage a dead woman that you didn't even think you were celebrating her. She was cruel to you, but you were so cruel to me as well. She was kind to me and you're kind to Draco. You keep repeating her actions.''

''Well...'' Abraxas said nothing more.

''I went to France to talk to mother and – and she told me that that I was obliviated a lot in the 1960s because, because you were always high on those substances and – and she won't tell me, but I would like to know what was so horrible that everyone felt the need to obliviate me.''

Abraxas found things difficult to say that were easy for most, but found easy to say what was difficult for others: ''I may have threatened you a few times. Truly scared you. You're not a Black and therefore I imagine you won't ever get those memories back. Especially not after who it was that always obliviated you. You know, Tom – Voldemort, whatever –'' Abraxas clasped and unclasped his hands, ''he cared for you more than I did. I handed you over to him and said that he could brand you with the mark and do with you as he pleased. Funnily enough he made sure you survived the war and remained as relatively unscathed during the 60s as possible. But while you were growing up and after he was allowed anywhere near you – Yvette never let me send him letters while he was abroad. Well, actually, she let me send them – but the owl would always be intercepted. It was quite a scandal to like a mudblood, you know. Not that he was mind you, but with a surname like Riddle, and a past drenched in orphandom it was difficult. Barred from my wedding, as well. I needed him there and he wasn't even allowed. I didn't bar anyone from coming to your wedding. You could have whomever you wanted.''

''Easy for you to say that when all of my guests were acceptable.''

''Yes, so enviably _uncomplicated_. I wanted Tom to be my witness.'' Abraxas found that he was differentiating between Lord Voldemort and Tom Riddle. He had fallen in love with Tom, but he cared for Voldemort because it was him that sent him that cure. If he didn't care he wouldn't have done that. ''But you can't have that. Think of what the people will say. I was _Lord_ Malfoy.'' Abraxas spat the title with hatred so profound that Lucius felt it across from him.

''If you hate that title so much then hand it over.''

''To you? Now? In this chaos? You would fall apart like a stack of uncharmed cards in a typhoon!''

''You underestimate me.''

''Maybe so.'' Abraxas said. Then he switched the topic: ''You called him father. He obliviated you. Didn't tell me. I found out only ages after rehab. He didn't know how I would react. I told him that if you'd done it once it was a mere fluke. Then, ha, he told me that he obliviated that most frequently. You were so close to both Lilith and him then. Antoinette, oh she has a tendency to flee to France whenever something doesn't go according to plan for her, and well – I'm always such a mess, aren't I?''

Lucius floundered for a proper response. That was obviously not the information he had hoped to procure.

Abraxas stood up finally and on his way out of the guest room he lingered, briefly placing a hand on Lucius' shoulder and squeezing: ''You sincerely called Lord Voldemort father more frequently than you did me. Get up, Lucius, aren't you caught up in planning his execution?''

Abraxas let go of Lucius and left first, disapparating with a heavy-laden crack.

Lucius got up on shaky feet. When he exited the guest room he saw Narcissa down the corridor, waving at him with a smile. Draco peeked out from behind her and he had a very big parchment roll from which he dictated all of the things they had to get ready before going to the Order correctly.

Perhaps Abraxas was right. Lucius was better than him and he should not feel terrible for it.

No, Lucius walked over to his family, he should _never_ feel terrible for this.

* * *

Mandy Leach rested her legs on a small ottoman in her office and marvelled at her brilliance. A stack of _finished_ paperwork stood out as a pat on her tired back. She smiled, quite proud of herself, and crossed her arms. The stack of paperwork, were Mandy more sleep-deprived, would have cracked open a bunch of pages to speak to her and say: GOOD JOB, MANDY! YOU HAVE DONE A TREMENDOUSLY AMAZING JOB! PLEASE, RELAX NOW AND DO NOT GET UP FROM THIS RELAXING POSITION (WHICH YOU'VE EARNED) FOR ANYTHING AT ALL – NOT EVEN IF SOMETHING SINISTER MAY BE HAPPENING IN YOUR HOSPITAL.

So, when Bellatrix Lestrange (Back to Black, she corrected) and Bartemius Crouch Junior (Barty, please, he corrected) opened Mandy Leach's office door to inquire about the whereabouts of Alice and Frank Longbottom –Mandy refused to leave her relaxing position and merely gave a very detailed and verbal set of directions which would successfully lead the two Death Eaters to their goal.

They thanked her and closed the door gently, as Mandy requested they did.

The stack of finished paperwork said: THIS WAS NOTHING MORE THAN A SLIGHT HITCH IN YOUR RELAXATION PLANS, MANDY- WHICH MAY I ADD – YOU'VE DEALT WITH BEAUTIFULLY.

Mandy closed her eyes and drifted off to a small, well deserved, catnap.

* * *

Hermione Granger could feel her head cracking from the onslaught of questions and prying eyes, deepening their reach into her brain. In a flurry of uncoordinated movements the Order dug out a pensieve and had her dripping her mind's memories into it. She clawed tightly at the edge of the pensieve, but relinquished her hold over the memories, allowing them to be extracted. When another did this, it was – oh it was beyond uncomfortable.

Everyone looked and everyone feared and everyone, when they looked at Hermione, feared what she had gone through.

''Your mentor's You-Know-Who…'' whispers followed her and questions bombarded her all while Hermione was forced never to reveal that she felt awful for coming here and renouncing the one person who had given it his all to teach her magic and make this confusing transitional part of her life less confusing.

''Holy shite!''

''Nimue's saggy tits!'' Tonks' hair went from green to orange to red to yellow to purple to blue to black to white until it was back to her usual pinkish colour.

''Merlin's beard!''

At the very least it was comforting to know that no one suspected she worked for Voldemort. At least everyone still saw her as their friend, even after spending so much time with the enemy. Learning from him, eating with him, joking with him, talking to him about how her parents were happy to be empty-nesters and wanted her to spend as much time in the magical world as possible (prefacing this sort of conversation with an obvious: they love me _of course_ , but), listening to him talk about proper duelling technique with too much expertise for a man that was well known in academia circles for potioneering and herbology rather than defence.

Hary and Ron stood by her and made fun of her predicament because they knew that whenever Hermione wouldn't do as well as she had hoped on an essay or had something troubling her, humour was the only way to get her to forget about it. They tried their best, but this was just a lot more important and serious than missing a comma in an essay.

Mrs. Weasley shielded her whenever Moody asked a question about allegiance or how she was going to go and fight the good fight with them all – Hermione's face went as green as Tonks' hair could.

''Alastor, Hermione is hero without whom you would all be grasping for silly clues, show some respect!'' Mrs. Weasley shouted, indignant on behalf of Hermione. She missed this powerful mother figure. A thought popped in her mind while Mrs. Weasley gave her double portion of the dinner –What was Narcissa up to? Had they found Draco? Were they okay? Should she write them? She'd been so enamoured by the idea of a mentorship and learning that she'd forgotten to write everybody as often as she'd promised. Krum's unanswered letter bothered her. All of her unanswered letters bothered her.

''Could I be excused?'' Hermione simply said and didn't wait for anyone to excuse her. She trailed upstairs and found Sirius Black staring pensively at a room. It was just an ordinary room, there was absolutely no need for the man to look so dejected.

''Hello.'' Hermione greeted.

Sirius shrugged and pointed to that door: ''This is my brother's room. He was a Death Eater.''

''Oh.'' Hermione didn't know what more to say. She lingered and listened to Sirius talking.

''I was an auror, you know – so I found out a lot of about this sort of thing. In the first part of the war, back when Reggie was far too young to do anything – You-Know-Who's right hand was Bellatrix, my cousin. You've heard of her, yeah – yeah you have. Everyone has.'' He pressed his hands into his jean pockets and stared intensely at the door, as if willing to burn it down and reveal a person inside it that had just been hiding there the entire time.

''If you think I was groomed to be some sort of replacement, rest assured, Mr. Black, I wasn't''

''Sirius.''

''Sirius.''

''No, I didn't insinuate that at all. From the memories you can tell he just wants to forget about everything, but that's even worse in my opinion. Let sleeping dogs lie, right? Not when that fucking dog's bitten off all of my friends' heads, I won't.'' He growled and at Hermione's balk calmed down enough to continue: ''In the second part of the War, it was clear that Bellatrix had done something to fall out of favour. So the ingénue he'd chosen to mould into the perfect Death Eater wasn't Snivelus Snape– or at least it wasn't only him – it was my brother. My baby brother who – who…'' Sirius closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall opposite of the room.

''I'm sorry,'' Hermione said. She was, really.

Before she could pat the older, distraught man on the back she heard shouting.

The impenetrable wards around them began to sizzle, damaged.

The indestructible magic of the arcane home began to shift, indecisive.

Hermione launched herself into a sprint down the stairs, accompanied by Sirius. Both of them had wands, either bought or given.

''What's going on?'' Hermione asked, her voice raising an octave because she wasn't used to fighting. She hadn't been prepared for this part.

''Someone's trying to breach the wards.'' Mrs. Weasley whispered.

''You mean someone's succeeded!'' Sirius shouted and told everyone to aim right at the front door.

''The front door?'' Everyone questioned.

Because the modus of arrival for any witch or wizard was to go by floo. Muggles used front doors. It wasn't an ingrained habit in magic folk. Therefore the wards around front doors were littered with notice-me-not spells, and not the heavy artillery of spells made to keep witches and wizards out. At least, not as much as there ought to be.

''Yes, the bloody front door-''

In that moment, before Sirius had coordinated everyone –

The front door to Grimmauld Place burst open.

And The Portrait of Walburga Black could be heard yelling: ''FINALLY!''


	41. TBOGOP: SUFFERING

Most of the individuals trapped in Grimmauld Place had gone to war and had thought that, hopefully, they would never go back to war again. Death laughed in the face of their hope and said that whilst it was true that hope died last, the death of hope sure was delicious to watch as it gasped and writhed. 

Like a broken record, over and over again, a train of thought seemed to repeating itself in every mage’s head: Please, I don't want to die in  _ Walburga Black's _ house. Please, if there is a god or a series of gods – don't do this to me. I've got the capacity to change for the better, I swear! This isn’t me just saying this now, I’m really going to turn over a new leaf -- a new book even! I’ll mow down however many trees it takes for me to change.  **_Please_ ** . 

It was a complex train of thought, all in all. Unfortunately for the thinkers Death didn't believe any of their prayers. In fact, she dropped her usual pastime of watching Tom Riddle to entertain herself with the Battle of Grim Old Place. It would go down in history as the author’s most hated series of chapters.

Sirius Black took up his wand and aimed it at his mother, an expression of concentration intermixing with rage only problematic sons had when dealing with problematic parents. Walburga looked at him and said, not as cruelly as Sirius had expected: ''Haven't got any werewolves to set on me, do you,  **_son_ ** ?''

Severus could be heard abruptly laughing in the most bitter tone anyone had ever heard come from him. Remus shut him up with an expeliarmus that hit him straight in the mouth.

* * *

The Order fought valiantly against the most heinous opposition. The Weasleys, however, were all over the place, scattered in the wind like red mist.

Ron Weasley and Harry Potter (honorary Weasley) were pitted against the one, the only couple of Wiltshire that made their relationship work without a duel in over ten years: Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy!

Meanwhile, not far from them: Molly and Arthur Weasley were up against the inexperienced Draco Malfoy and the ever-present-for-wars-that-have-nothing-to-do-with-him- _ a-slav _ Igor Karkaroff.

* * *

''Junior!'' Moody yelled, wand ready and his form constantly vigilant nowadays. He looked like a rabid dog ready to tear apart his target.

Barty and Avery turned around at the same time, worry lined creasing their frames in an unflattering light. They’d have to put lots of creams to get those out if they wanted to keep their youthful visages. Avery touched his face and felt dread coiling around his insides. 

Moody put his dreads to bed: ''Not  _ you _ , lover boy. I meant Crouch's disgraceful son!''

Avery shrugged, hiding that he was grateful not to go against legendary Mad Eye: ''Tough luck, Barty.'' And pushed the young Death Eater towards Moody.

Diggle, however, managed to keep Avery busy enough. One of the spells he fired cut a lock of Avery's hair. It was the greatest tragedy of the battle for Avery. Well. One of the greatest tragedies of the battle. The other one hadn’t yet come to pass. 

Avery cried out in a mournful rage: ''Sectumsempra!''

Diggle toppled down, clutching at his neck, profusely trying to stop the bleeding. He smeared Walburga Black's Black walls. Her painting exclaimed:  **''DISGUSTING** !''

* * *

While her painting shouted atop her lungs, Walburga was silent for a change as she cast against the Heir of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.

Sirius went silent, too. They climbed up the stairs, as the downstairs raged in cacophony of spellfire. At some point during the battle, Walburga shot her son with a cutting hex, and Sirius returned it tenfold harder.

But just because their spell casting was silent, didn't necessarily mean that their battle was wholly without commentary. Because like mother like son, neither couldn't help but be the dramatic force they were known to be.

''YOU UTTER DISGRACE, SIRIUS!''

''CRY ME A RIVER, WALBURGA!''

''YOU UNGRATEFUL BOY! IF YOU WERE ANYONE ELSE'S SON YOU WOULD HAVE BEEN SENT AWAY A LONG, LONG TIME AGO! THE THINGS I LET YOU GET AWAY WITH – WHAT YOU'D DONE TO BOTH SEVERUS AND THAT WEREWOLF WOULD HAVE LANDED YOU IN AZKABAN!''

''YOU DIDN'T DO SHITE FOR THAT, O MOTHER OF THE PUREST, MOST INBRED BLOOD! THAT WAS ALL DUMBLEDORE'S DOING!''

Walburga fired off two hexes consecutively, finding power in giving her son a piece of her mind: ''HA! YOU THINK DUMBLEDORE SENT THE LUPINS MONEY AS CONSOLATION? YOU THINK DUMBLEDORE APPEASED ABRAXAS MALFOY INTO NOT PRESSING CHARGES AGAINST YOU FOR HARMING HIS, THEN FAVOURED, WARD? IT WAS BECAUSE OF  **MY** DOING, IT WAS BECAUSE OF  **ME** BEING YOUR MOTHER THAT YOU'RE HERE WHERE YOU ARE  **_NOW_ ** !''

Sirius repulsively looked at his mother then. The very last thing he wanted to be was indebted to her. ''HOW  _ DARE _ YOU LIE TO ME! REMUS WOULD HAVE TOLD ME!''

He sent a spell at her. It hit her in the chest and caused her to fall down. She gritted her teeth and realised that it was a potent petrificus totalus.

Only after her son fled to aid his comrades did she proudly put together that her son hadn't aimed to kill. Her standards were low, but she lowered them some more for good measure.

The view she had from her position was very nice. Orion Black's sexy (to be fair, Walburga thought Orion was sexy all the time, without fault) painting waved at her and mouthed: I love you.

Walburga wished she could smile at him. Ugh, bloody children and their potent petrificus totaluses. 

* * *

Lucius and Narcissa fought against young Order members their son's age. It was kind of disconcerting. 

Ron and Harry mirrored their movements.

''We won't cast any unforgivables.'' Narcissa turned to her husband and joked. ''They may  _ rebound _ on us.''

Lucius said to his wife that, as the more experienced combatant of the two of them, it was in poor taste to say such things in duel. Narcissa gently placed a hand on Lucius' cheek and said: ''Darling, while I do love you, this can all change if you don’t let me have my fun with the miracle child.''

He nodded at that. There was something about his wife, now that she was on ancestral ground, that filled him with a sense of relief and calm. It would be very hard to kill anyone of Black blood.

Harry sent a testing hex at Lucius, who deflected it.

Narcissa sent a tripping hex on Ron. He fell down some stairs. Harry ran to aid him.

Lucius turned around and couldn’t help but grin: ''What is it with you and just  _ effortlessly _ winning in combat?''

Narcissa smiled very proudly of herself. ''I suppose I'm a natural.''

Then said natural got hit with a stray bone shattering hex in her ankle and toppled down on her husband like a led balloon. 

''Mother! Mother,  _ I'm sorry _ !'' Draco exclaimed from down the corridor. His combatants were Molly and Arthur Weasley, who decided to take five for a moment after turning Igor into a rugby ball. One that Arthur promptly punted across the room.

''Are you out of your mind, Draco?!'' Lucius shouted, outraged. ''Where were you aiming? Don’t you know how to duel?!'' He almost didn’t stop himself from asking who had taught him how to duel in fear of Draco shouting YOU DID in front of Arthur Weasley, that menace of a man.

Draco rushed towards his mother to see if she was all right. Narcissa would live, but she was in a lot of pain right now and the look she fixed her son with would have murdered men and women in a more deadly way than the Basilisk's eyes could. ''I'm fine, my dragon.'' She whispered.

Languidly Molly and Arthur walked over to the Malfoys. Arthur, because he never could keep his mouth shut when around Lucius, had this to say: ''Well, that's one way to raise a child, I  _ suppose _ .''

Lucius glared at Arthur, then, and abandoned his wife in order to toss insults at his long-life nemesis.

Molly and Narcissa exchanged those looks they’d grown accustomed to exchanging. A more observant observer would describe the meaning of this gaze as:  _ We married them and we love them, but they need to  _ **_fuck_ ** _. And we’d be fine with that. _

Lucius pretended to laugh at an insult Arthur sent his way. He flung his hair out of the way and sneered: ‘’I won’t be laughed at by a man that’s neck deep in debt because casting a contraceptive charm is too much hassle for him.’’

‘’There’s nothing wrong with having a large family! Now what’s disgusting is the set up of your family-‘’

‘’Well, Arthur, I never took you as a homophobe-‘’

‘’I couldn’t care less about any of that, don’t you dare spin this – you piranha of a man – this is about fascism and pureblood prejudice leaking off of you in full!’’

‘’I hate how dirty that comparison sounds!’’

‘’You hate how accurate it is! Is Draco supposed to learn good values from a Death Eater?’’

And now they were duelling. Lucius couldn’t take another insult about his bad life choices. He desperately wanted to toss Arthur Weasley to the ground and show him who was boss. Oh well, with that in mind maybe Narcissa’s constant comments of his frustration when around Arthur Weasley made sense? Lucius had a lot of things to think about. Arthur just drew the worst out of him! That precocious fiend!

Molly healed Narcissa’s ankle and asked her to test her leg out. Narcissa did and thanked the woman for brilliant spell work.

‘’Well, with how many injuries my boys have gone through due to quidditch, or this and that – I had to learn healing spells.’’ Molly shrugged.

‘’Very good job for a self-taught woman. I trust you didn’t take the classes at St. Mungo’s?’’

The tension between Molly and Narcissa rose like a wall. Draco tried to alleviate the tension by asking after Molly’s many, many children.

Molly boasted: ‘’Bill’s in France with Fleur. He married rich.’’

Draco elbowed Narcissa, who then said that Molly had raised a very level headed boy, if his priority was money.

Molly admitted that they really didn’t have as much as other households, but that she’d tried her best. Narcissa agreed. ‘’Parenting is very hard.’’

‘’Charlie’s off in Hungary nowadays. There’s a new job opening he’s going to take. I’m very proud of him.’’

‘’He’s the dragon tamer?’’ Narcissa was trying to keep track of all of these Weasleys. Lucius knew them all by heart because KNOW THY ENEMY, CISSA.

‘’Yes, yes.’’

Draco said that having a job where you had to interact with dragons sounded wicked cool. Narcissa laughed and said that if he went to have such a dangerous job she’d personally ensure his trust fund would disappear. Draco scoffed: ‘’It  **sounds** cool, but it’s probably just a lot of dung scraping, anyway. Really, mother – no need for such  _ drastic _ measures.’’

Fred and George ran their own joke shop. They were abroad in France, trying to open up another branch. Apparently the French loved pranks. Some Antoinette Mercier woman wanted to fund them, solely so she can have as many Fake Exploding Peacocks to buy off of them and terrorize her ex-husband who’s a native Englishman.

Narcissa laughed into her hand, abruptly. Molly, unaccustomed to this woman exhibiting anything other than poise and elegance, balked. Draco groaned. All three of them, briefly glanced over to the infamous duel happening nearby. 

The way Arthur and Lucius duelled could be likened to a passionately heated tango.

Molly averted her eyes first, as she couldn’t watch this dumpster fire of a situation her husband had finally decided to untangle. 

‘’I hope that Ron wasn’t harmed too badly.’’ Narcissa only knew Ron Weasley because he was Draco’s age, otherwise she couldn't care less. 

Ron was with Harry, being tended to, at the bottom of the stairs. Molly boasted about how her youngest son was so brave. An auror. 

A green killing curse whizzed through the air. It nearly grazed said youngest son. Molly screamed aloud. Duelling in such close proximity to many other duels was a terrible idea. Narcissa’s breath stopped. She looked at Draco and ordered him to take cover immediately. 

‘’Mother, don’t be ridiculous.’’ Draco didn’t get much time to talk, because Narcissa hit her son in the shin, causing him to fall down - just in time for a blood congealing spell to fly over his head. 

Molly caused a scene by calling out whoever had dared cast an unforgivable in such close quarters. Augusta Longbottom merely levelled her old, incredibly wrathful gaze and apologized through gritted teeth. But in her defence, she merely gestured to the presence of Bellatrix Black. 

To change the topic, Narcissa looked to Molly and asked: ‘’How’s your daughter?’’

Their husbands still fought and Narcissa didn’t know whether leaving him to his game was a smart idea. Molly seemed to be having a similar dilemma. 

Ginny was in Hogwarts with her girlfriend Luna. Molly sighed: ‘’She wants to be a quidditch player.’’ Then she rolled her eyes. ‘’Children and their ideas.’’

‘’Well, Ginny could play professionally.’’ Draco put in his two knuts into the conversation. ‘’She is the best on her team. Potter just had dumb luck and raw talent. They don’t care for that in a professional setting as much as strategy.’’

Molly patted Draco on the cheek and pinched them, for good measure. ‘’You’ve raised such a respectful boy, Narcissa.’’

‘’Thank you, Molly.’’

Arthur and Lucius had given up duelling to physically wrestle each other down. It was just as awkward as one might imagine two grown men fighting like schoolboys. 

Molly, Narcissa, and Draco decided to leave them to it. This had gone on long enough. 

‘’There’s got to be some part of this house that’s neutral?’’ Molly asked the real questions. 

‘’Try the Library.’’ Narcissa said. ‘’If I know my family, and I do, someone would have already thought to convert the Library to a med zone.’’

* * *

Bellatrix thought that of all the things she could have done, going up against Augusta Longbottom was by far her most ambitious feat.

''I'm very pleased to see you out of Azkaban.'' Augusta said and held her wand in a tight, unforgiving grasp. Her eyes scanned Bellatrix. With abhorrence she said: ''Your punishment was not good enough.''

More chilling words had never been said to Bellatrix. She primed her wand for attack, taking on a duelling stance that would elicit awe. ''Frankie was collateral damage, I just want to clear that up.''

Augusta shot first.

Bellatrix evaded.

* * *

Remus and Severus squared off. This wasn't a duel, per se, as much as it was a coming clean party.

''It was wrong what we did to you at Hogwarts, Severus.'' Remus apologised on behalf of all of his the Marauders (dead, dead-to-Remus, and rigidly dead set in his way that his actions had no consequences).

''Shut up.'' Severus, a somewhat emotionally intelligent individual, had this to say. ''You're only apologizing because I've got you on wand point,  **_dog_ ** .''

Doge made a grave error in turning around from his duel to see what Severus wanted from him. Avery took this opportune moment and fired off a sleeping jinx. Alas, Doge fell and twisted his neck in a very unfortunate angle. Avery closed his eyes and hissed:  _ ''Yikes _ .''

Death claimed her victim and moved on to another room. She marvelled at the spaciousness of the venue, as Grimmauld Place tended to be very cramped and claustrophobic, akin to a prison sons wanted to flee from. Ancestral magic acted in conspicuous ways. A space fit for many battles was what the Black family wanted – then it would be as they wished.

She skipped and shimmied up to a frenzied Thoros Nott. Lovingly, Death caressed the back of his neck and enjoyed the way he tensed up. Fear clawed apart his stomach and bathed in its acid. Shakes occupied his fingers. His opponent didn't take long before overtaking him. Tonks' hair switched to bubblegum pink from sour green, when she saw the old man topple down in a bind.

''Oof. Not nice to freeze up in battle like that, Lord Nott.'' She winked and levitated his body to a nearby couch to sit on until they got all of this sorted. ''I hear Azkaban gets better and better the more you return!'' Then, remembering herself. ''Wait, no, don't escape again.''

Thoros could only think of what a long time it'd been since he'd last duelled. Then he came to the conclusion that it was better to freeze up when up against someone who didn't want him dead, than to do so against someone with a personal vendetta against him. 

‘’Sir, where do I take prisoners?’’ Tonks shouted. 

Moody, who was in a bloody battle with Barty Jr, fanned away this question. ‘’I don’t ruddy know, Tonks, take him to the Library. It’s probably been converted to a neutral zone by now.’’

She saluted the man and pulled Thoros up into a standing position. ‘’Let’s go.’’ She pushed him hard. Thoros staggered, but caught himself from falling face first on the floor. 

* * *

Neville somehow found himself up against a slav that really, honestly, nobody had any idea how he had involved himself in a british civil war during the 1970s. Even stranger was how he’d run across the man. He was a rugby ball, for Merlin’s sake. 

‘’Boy.’’ Igor Karkaroff panted heavily from exertion. Turning yourself back into human form took out of one’s self apparently. ‘’Don’t make any sudden movements and everything will be fine.’’

‘’That’s not reassuring.’’ Neville said it how it was. Before Igor could gather his bearings, Neville charged him. He’d learned that sometimes the best offence was actually physically attacking one’s opponent. Igor didn’t see this powerhouse coming. 

What he also didn’t see coming was Barty Jr taking his duel against Moody and bringing to over to where Igor was getting his arse handed to him by an eighteen year old. 

‘’I’m going to tear you limb from limb!’’

‘’Bring it on, you decrepit hound! You’re worse than professor Kettleburn and that man’s got half his limbs on him.’’

‘’How dare you liken me to that absolute bloody idiot. I only lost half of my face, my leg, and my eye - that man’s barely managing to exist without the aid of magic!’’

‘’Animals never liked him I have no idea why he taught Care for Magical Creatures.’’

‘’Every time I had lessons with him as a boy I worried that he’d die.’’

‘’How he’s managed to live to be one hundred and something is beyond my scope of understanding-’’

‘’-Hey, Barty, can you help me out -oof.’’ Igor did not finish his train of thought as Neville punched him straight in the face. 

‘’Can I help YOU out?’’ Barty Jr, bolstered by the flame of war and adrenaline, had a lot of things to say to Igor Karkaroff. In fact, the tidal wave of emotion that erupted from within the traumatized young man was so unrivaled that Moody calculated, did so correctly, and decided to push Neville and himself out of the way. 

Igor, dusting himself off, coughed and wheezed. ‘’Da, we’re on the same, side after all!’’

Neville asked why they weren’t duelling them, but was shushed by Moody, who looked very, very pleased with his deductive abilities. He’d sharpened them and turned them into unerring after he’d made a grave miscalculation in 1968. Never again, he swore!

Barty laughed straight in Igor’s face. Without his General there to tell him what to do, he allowed himself more freedom in expressing the thunderous rage swirling into a maelstrom, devouring him from the inside out. He stepped up and aimed his wand at Igor. Igor raised his wand in defence. 

‘’Same side?’’

‘’Yes!’’

Neville, not having any frame of reference as to why Barty Jr. may take offense to the mere existence of Igor Karkaroff, turned to Moody and asked him after this bad blood. 

Moody just shook his head and smiled a warren, pleased little smirk. 

Barty nodded along, pretending to agree with Igor. ‘’Oh, right, yes. Of course. We’re on the SAME side. Right. My apologies if I don’t see that camaraderie since you NAMED me.’’ He fired off an unforgivable at Igor; finding his treasonous behaviour in the 1980s, just that, unforgivable. It missed. 

Moody pulled Neville out of harm’s way and whispered: ‘’They’re doing our bloody job for us, lad. Watch and learn.’’

Igor angrily shot three cruciatus curses at Barty, realising that pulling one’s shots was ill advised. ‘’You’re just going to let the aurors win, then? Wouldn’t Bellatrix tell you that it was us against them?’’

Momentarily, Barty stopped his attacks. He thought of Bellatrix. She would not be pleased to note that they’d ganged up on each other. But just as she had bad blood to sort out with the Dark Lord, so did Barty have some to sort out with Igor. 

‘’Barty, just out of curiosity,’’ Moody called out, ‘’son, how did you find Azkaban?’’

‘’Azkaban was not the worst of it.’’ Barty hissed, remembering years upon years of having his father imperius him. He was back in full swing now, ready to end Igor Karkaroff’s acquitted arse. 

In a series of very intricate spellfire, coupled with the fact that both parties disliked each other, alongside the mere concept of having Moody goading them on - the end result turned out to be very favourable for one Alastor Moody. 

Splashes of green littered the room. If it weren’t for Moody’s old friendship with Bartemius Crouch Sr, he’d have just crossed over his son’s dead body, but because Moody wasn’t a bad guy he decided to bend down and close the lad’s eyes. 

Neville was coming to terms with the futility of life as he stared down at Igor Karkaroff’s cooling body. ‘’He was alive one moment and then -’’ The boy was going through a lot. ‘’Then he just isn’t anymore?’’ He looked to Moody for guidance and reassurance. He looked to the wrong person for this. The old auror just shrugged and said that Neville ought to help him levitate the bodies off to some corner. 

Very awkwardly and slowly and with a lot more thoughts on his mind than Neville thought possible for him to have, he acquiesced to Moody’s request. 

But then, because Neville was one unlucky boy, he got shot in the shoulder blade by Severus Snape. He’d missed Remus. Neville was in tremendous amount of pain. He clung onto Moody and bit through screams. Hopefully he’d continue having use of that arm. 

Moody heaved a sigh and helped Neville to the Library. There ought to be someone over there that had a good head on their shoulders.

Death didn’t think any of these people had their heads attached properly. But she wasn’t going to complain. Because this was the most fun she’d had in a long, long while. Her fingers ghosted over Barty’s face. He’d lived too long for her taste. Four years longer than was initially anticipated for him. 

* * *

Abraxas did not like how his actions painted his character. Donned with the Hallows, he sprinted for the least populated area of this anarchy-riddled pandemonium. This sanctuary of his was not the Black Library, thank you very much. Half of the damned soldiers (the term was used loosely) were already evacuated to the premises to be tended to by the deadly Tonks combo. 

No, what Abraxas needed right now was privacy. He passed by Sirius Black, who was sprinting towards Severus and Remus’ duel. They locked eyes and Sirius vaguely tried gesticulating to Abraxas to piss off. Abraxas was appalled by the manners of his not-per-se godson. He got all of this from his mother. 

Going up the stairs he found that Walburga Black had freed herself and was chatting up Orion Black’s painting. The comments alone made Abraxas go red in the face. He looked a little bit like Arthur Weasley, who was doing very strange things to his son. 

‘’LUCIUS!’’ Abraxas shouted. Lucius pushed Arthur off of him as if he weighed nothing; it was amazing what fear did to a person. ‘’LUCIUS, HAVE YOU ANY DECENCY!’’

Arthur Weasley opened his mouth to say quite a few things about this, but he did not want to call attention to himself and his obviously tousled appearance that had very little to do with a physical altercation, and more to do with Lucius’ lipgloss smearing. In the end he just gave up and let Lucius explain to his father that he’d finally manned up. 

‘’I- he - we - it - this isn’t how it looks like, father!’’ Arthur, then, decided to go in for another kiss. After breaking it, Lucius screamed out: ‘’Narcissa doesn’t mind!’’

‘’Neither does Molly. She’s told me to branch off. We’re both very satisfied with our sexualities and aren’t afraid of trying out new things.’’ 

‘’Well, I mean, with seven children, I’m surprised she hasn’t urged you to branch off sooner, Arthur.’’ Abraxas said. Then, turning to his son, and in a flabbergasted tone: ‘’In the ancestral home of your wife, you decide to hook up with,’’ Abraxas couldn’t even bring himself to say the words. He hurried his step. At that moment he decided that he was going to leave everything he had to Draco. Though, upon retrospect,  _ only  _ on the condition that Draco take care of his peafowls. The boy would do it. He was a good lad. 

The only place that Abraxas knew for a fact would not be occupied, due to its shrine-like aspect, was nearby. He pushed himself to run faster, wrapped his hand around the doorknob, and opened the door to the late Regulus Black’s room. 

There he found Hermione Granger, hiding underneath a desk. 

‘’Hello, dear girl.’’ He said and offered her his arm to take. ‘’They really won’t come in here. No need to hide.’’

‘’I’m not taking your hand.’’ There was a heaviness in Hermione’s words. She pierced him with a glare. 

‘’Then don’t.’’ Abraxas turned away and sat on Regulus’ bed. That poor, poor boy. He inhaled and exhaled slowly. Hermione had her knees to her face and she stared at him from under the desk. 

‘’I ratted him out.’’ Hermione whispered, her chest full of knots, ‘’The only person who’s ever truly understood me.’’

Abraxas leaned back on the bed and hated how much he found Hermione’s words accurate and painful. ‘’I promised I’d kill him.’’

‘’Oh.’’ Hermione said. Then, she laughed. Abraxas looked back towards her. She was smiling a lopsided smile full of confusion. ‘’That’s bad. Worse than what I did, at least.’’

Abraxas smiled, too. ‘’Quire right, my dear.’’

She pushed herself from underneath the desk and stared down at Abraxas. Next she made a shooing motion and he scooted closer to the wall. 

After reclining next to the old man on the bed, both of them staring up at the ceiling, Hermione inquired, very quietly: ‘’What do we do now?’’


	42. TBOGOP: Bad Times Abound

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd just like to thank every single one of you for reading and reviewing. This story is very dear to me and to see it's dear to so many of you really means a lot. So, just so you know I read every single comment and they truly motivate me to continue. Thank you!

The quiet of Regulus' room was deafening compared to the cacophony outside. Rapid spellfire ignited the halls of Grimmauld Place. Clambering survivors fought each other for ancient tomes. A library was torn to shreds. The bodies were neatly pushed to corners of rooms so the duelling could continue in an orderly fashion.

Too many people in close quarters made anyone antsy; this was why weddings, funerals, and birthday parties tended to have an outside element to them.

This many people in one house was madness.

A madness that Abraxas Malfoy and Hermione Granger vowed to avoid completely.

''We cannot back out.'' Abraxas said. It pained him to do this, truly it did. This was a decision that thrilled a side of him that still remembered the betrayal and agony of those seventeen years. That part of him would never forget. Another part, buried deep within his squelching, squealing heart thought that he could never stop loving Tom. A battle was waged within his heart, tearing each thought apart as Abraxas tried to understand what could not be understood, no matter how much he tried.

Hermione was staring upward at the ceiling and she whispered, her voice slow and hitching: ''No, I suppose we've got to do what's right.''

''What is the right thing to do? That which we have obligation towards?'' Abraxas allowed himself to think of a life he could have had with Tom were their circumstances different, but ultimately he decided that it was not worth dwelling on. Only ruined men without a future to look forward to ruminate over the past and blame others for his own undoing.

''I promised -'' Hermione was Harry's friend. Her mentor killed his parents. It would be logical whose side she would be on. There ought to be no hesitation. ''I mean,'' she asked: ''what even can we do?''

''There is no backing out, my dear,'' Abraxas repeated. ''We have made our choices and now we must go through with them.''

Hermione nodded, dread had festered in her lungs and she breathed, afraid of what was to come. ''He did so many unforgivable things.'' Of course he did. He was lord Voldemort, a Dark lord.

But even with that in mind, ''I can't kill him,'' Abraxas dared to announce.

Hermione hummed at that. She understood. ''But does he deserve our forgiveness and loyalty?''

''No'' Abraxas said instantly, ''not unless he begs me for it.''

Hermone closed her eyes. She saw her mentor, who'd been like a father to her these past few months. How could she betray him like this? ''He trusted me and I ratted him out, Mr. Abraxas.''

''You did _**nothing**_ wrong'' Abraxas would rather see Tom hunted than see Hermione so torn up. One was capable of taking care of himself and one was a girl that had only recently graduated and entered the real, unstructured world. ''He is a war criminal, Hermione.''

''I can't see it.'' Hermione remembered the dancing fiendfyre. She had been so mesmerized by it then, but upon retrospect it was a show full of sadness and anger and unconditional hurt. The peacock it had taken the form of was next to her now, equally as sad and angry and hurt.

Wordlessly, a sob escaped Hermione, and Abraxas drew her into his embrace, whispering: ''Sweet thing, hush now. There is no need for tears. Do not waste your emotions on people like him.'' He rocked her, or at least tried to. It was done so awkwardly, but Hermione appreciated the gesture. Abraxas did not make it a point to rock anybody. Lucius least of all. So, if asked, he would explain that he was making an exception with this young child that had captured his heart and held onto it.

At first, he'd been amused by her because she was like Tom. Someone that wanted to learn everything there was to learn was rare to come by. It took Abraxas only a couple of conversations to differentiate between Hermione and Tom. Tom had loved knowledge to the degree of self-destruction and self-mutilation - Hermione had not yet gone that far. Hopefully, with Abraxas' continued guidance she would never go that far.

Abraxas remembered a conversation he'd had with Albus, before any of this had begun. He'd yelled at the then alive man and told him off for his behaviour towards Tom, but Albus had been right. Abraxas had enabled Tom's obsession with immortality. Abraxas had been incapable and, a bit unwilling to stop him from splitting his own soul. He was afraid that if he'd tried that Tom would leave. There were too many IFs crawling through Abraxas' brain. He tried to clear his thoughts.

Hermione apologized, but she did not know to whom: Abraxas, Mr. Goldsmith, or herself. Her voice was so weak. It was nothing to how Abraxas remembered Hermione, his young and stark powerhouse of knowledge.

''It is all right. Nobody expected anything else. You did the only thing you could in such a situation, my dear girl.''

''Mr. Abraxas?''

''Yes?''

''Can I tell you something that I've never really told anyone.''

''Did _he_ hurt you?'' Abraxas would never forgive him. Rage sparked through him, so potent and visible in the sparks that cascaded through his hair. He turned towards Hermione and she blinked, owlishly at the sudden reaction. Until it seemed that she caught onto which He Abraxas was alluding to. Then she waved her hands no.

''No!'' For good measure she shouted. ''No, no - he was always very kind to me. He even took care of me when I got smashed with absinthe in Munich.'' He'd done a lot more to Hermione, too, but this was the one that always stuck out the most. How easily he'd been to help her, not mock her, and even jokingly offer to be her parent. Hermione's insides churned at how bloody _happy_ that had made her.

''Then what is it?'' Abraxas smiled at Hermione. That smile was probably meant to be comforting, but Hermione felt very unnerved by it and the silver eyes that somewhat even glowed in the dark and muted mausoleum which was Regulus Black's childhood room.

''Could you go back and stare at the ceiling, it's a lot easier to talk when I don't have to make eye contact with people. This is very hard for me.''

Abraxas' smile slid off, just as quickly as it had formed. He obliged her, however. But then he began to tap his fingers against each other in anticipation.

''My parents are distant.'' Hermione finally said that which had been eating at her for years. She'd chalked it up as normal. Or to be more precise; she'd chalked it up as her normal. But Montgomery had shown interest in her and her studies and promised to always make time for her. Another sob wretched itself painfully from her, how an inexperienced dentist squared off against a stubborn tooth. Abraxas didn't hush this sob, letting it run its course.

Hermione controlled herself and calmed her voice enough to continue: ''They've always made time for me before Hogwarts. I didn't have any friends before Harry and Ron, you know.'' Abraxas encouraged her to go on. ''But then when they saw that they couldn't keep up with my magical world, they – it's like they decided to let me go _completely_.''

''You did… live with them right?'' Abraxas glued his eyes to the ceiling.

''Oh no, yes. I did. They didn't kick me out or anything so drastic.''

''Right.'' Abraxas was concerned. ''Carry on.''

''It all happened so very slowly. At first, I mean. I could describe it like boiling a frog. I only truly noticed it this year after I'd gone and had more space. They would book every possible seminar, go to these book signings abroad, too. We spent time together during the holidays, but when they noticed I read more than I spoke to them they… they began… _I_ started spending time at the Weasleys. I remember when I asked them if I could go over to a friend. Mr. Abraxas, they were so relieved. A part of me even thought that if I didn't go I would burden them…'' Hermione sighed. ''They were just… you know.'' She had no idea. ''It's like they didn't want to be my parents anymore. They never mistreated me. I saw Harry's family life and I thought that I was living ideally compared to that.''

''Just because it isn't outright abuse doesn't make it all right.''

''Yes, well.''Hermione was uncomfortable to call this abuse. Nobody wanted to think that their parents could be abusive. Even if it wasn't as dangerous as people read about. Hermione had never been _hit_. Her parents just preferred when she was... away.

Abraxas didn't say anything to that, specifically. ''What else?''

''And then I went to Malfoy Manor when Draco invited me. You asked me these things that I don't think any adult before you has bothered.'' Hermione admitted. ''Maybe, when I look at the bigger picture, that's because you had Mr. Goldsmith with you for so long.''

''Mr. What now?''

''Goldsmith.'' Hermione remembered that Abraxas probably hadn't heard what Lord Voldemort had gone about calling himself in his own exile. ''Montgomery Goldsmith.''

''That is a wretched name.''

''I did think it was a bit too odd, personally. But you're named Abraxas, _**so**_.''

''Fair enough. Go on.''

''For the first time outside of school I was asked genuinely challenging questions. You sent me those tomes to read and didn't mind, at all, that I disagreed with you. I could see when people minded that. I wasn't stupid. It hurt every time I'd catch a professor sighing when they caught my hand up. But I wouldn't stifle myself for their comfort.''

''No, of course not.''

The ceiling was definitely old and rotted. It needed renovators.

Hermione shifted on the bed, clasping her hands together and placing them over her chest. ''Mr. Weasley always asked me things about my _muggle_ life. You asked me smart, magical questions. Not just about how the bloody post office worked. I latched onto you pretty badly then, I fear.'' An awkward, sheepish chuckle filled the room. It came as a welcome gift to the usually sombre conversation.

Abraxas hummed. ''You really did. I found it endearing, though.''

''Most people would have minded.'' Hermione grumbled.

Abraxas laughed it off. ''Do you really think I am most people, dear girl? I am in the Guiness book of world records. That is not most people.'' He could have said that he was not most people because most people hadn't had a very intense relationship with a ruddy Dark Lord, but that would have just set Hermione off even harder.

''God yes, I forgot about that. Nigel nearly ate my hair once.''

''Tom was so good with the birds. They liked him. It was one of the things I loved about him.'' But Abraxas never said he was a man who knew self-control. So, in the end, he did mention him.

''Do you still love him?'' Hermione wondered.

''I do not know, Hermione.''

''It isn't normal, is it?''

''What?''

''Latching onto people like this? First I did it with the Weasleys and then you and Narcissa and then Zorka and Mr. Goldsmith. Something's severely wrong with me.''

Abraxas couldn't help it. He understood that she was very young, but it still surprised him that Hermione was like Draco: so terribly, terribly stupid about some things. He laughed very hard at Hermione.

The way she self-consciously tried to cover her face with her hair at hearing him laugh set him off even harder. Abraxas needed to work on his reactions, he really did.

''There is _**nothing**_ wrong with you, dear girl. It is good that you want to have people who care about you in your life. It is normal. Though, what even is normal?'' that was too long a conversation to have. ''Hermione, dear girl, never be ashamed of this. Sometimes the parents we're born with disappoint us and that's sad, too. It's the first betrayal we ever go through. But that's also something that happens and as much as we would like for it to never happen – it's something … just… that we have to accept.'' He was a mathematician damn it. Words did not serve him well.

Hermione, ever observant, put two and two together. ''Who'd you latch onto?''

''Well, my father died when I was fifteen. He was brutally murdered in front of my very eyes, I really should stop telling people he'd died. That makes it sound like a natural death. Which it _isn't_.'' Abraxas spat out. Though, to actually speak of it openly was a new opportunity for him.

''I'm so … sorry?'' Hermione did not expect their talk to lead this way.

''Don't apologize. My Head of House became a father figure to me then. You sadly never met him. His name is Horace Slughorn and I would do anything for him. I'd like to think that he would do anything for me, but with the way students move through that school I'm not arrogant enough to think I'm special out of all of them.'' He shook his head and fanned what he'd said away with his hand. ''Tom thought so. But he never entertained the notion of family. You could really see he _cared_ about what Slughorn and Merrythought thought, however. Goodness, we all Tom had a crush on Merrythought with the way he tried inserting himself in every discussion. We were wrong, of course, because he turned out to just be projecting all of his motherly problems onto Merrythought.''

''He still does that. I actually met Professor Merrythought. She's so cool and I heard she called him son once and he _choked_.''

Abraxas guffawed at the mental image. Hermione laughed with him. They drowned out the noise from outside. Together, they'd warded the door to make sure nobody thought about entering it. If anyone tried they would be convinced that it was actually the Library they wanted to go to, instead.

Once their laughter died down, Hermione asked quietly: ''Do you think my parents would be like this if I wasn't a witch?''

''You are ot to blame at all for something like this, Hermione.'' it was odd to be having this conversation during a bloodbath waging outside. Abraxas continued, determined to help Hermione through this. He wasn't a good man, nor did he think of himself as one (it had seemed too arrogant) but he would do this one thing for this child, even if it killed him. ''People are, forgive my French, _connards_. What few people truly care for you, keep them close. It's a rarity to find someone like that.''

''I just feel so inadequate sometimes.''

''You're preaching to Flitwick's choir.'' Abraxas drawled. ''I've felt inadequate a good ⅔ of my life.''

''Does it ever stop?'' Hermione dared to ask. She was a Gryffindor, after all. A bold and brave girl like her could ask even the toughest questions.

''Yes.'' Abraxas answered. ''It does stop.''

Hermione nodded. It was enough to know this much for now. Slowly, she pushed herself into a sitting position. Her eyes levelled on the door. With an uncoordinated grunt she tried to climb over Abraxas towards the door and therefore towards reality. Too much of her time Hermione had spent wallowing and overthinking. Her steps were wobbly. One of her hands wrapped around the doorknob. She glanced back towards Abraxas. ''Want to rejoin society?''

Lots of screaming sounded outside.

''I'd personally rather not.'' Abraxas confessed.

''But I was having a moment just now, showing how I had grown as a person and was ready to face whatever waited for me out there.'' Hermione tried to turn the doorknob, but because Abraxas wasn't moving from the bed, stopped. With a terrible, knowing sigh, Hermione inquired: ''It's your tun, Mr. Abraxas. Have you got anything that's been bothering you?''

''I can't kill him, Hermione.'' Abraxas remembered Tom and how he was always gentle with his birds. It was the biggest damn turn on Abraxas had ever experienced with another living being. ''I'm still in love with him.''

Hermione sighed as she dragged herself back to the bed.

* * *

Meanwhile. Death was rather enjoying the Battle of Grimmauld Place because it was an opportune moment for her to catch up on some much needed work. These past seventeen years she'd been very sloppy. Watching and plotting Montgomery Goldsmith's death was too consuming an activity.

Most of the people she'd meant to collect were still very much alive. There were too many that were alive. Ugh. Death stood in a corner and scanned the room. She would do some work today, but there really were too many for her to do all at once.

This could be another thing that Death could and would blame on Tom Riddle: obstruction of metaphysical work. Well. All in due time. He and she would face off soon. It was going to be glorious.

* * *

Sirius looked at Severus and sneered: ''Well, if it isn't fucking _Snivelus_ come out to play. Moody was right about you! I don't know what any of us thought! You were never going to be fighting on our side. You have always been on their side, begging them to take you in because you never belonged anywhere else.''

The words hit much too close for comfort. Severus sent a hex, dark and painful, towards Sirius. He managed to avoid it. The Black's movements were graceful and deadly. The next thing he did was to send a jet of magenta-tinged spellfire flying at Severus. It hit Severus in the knee and he screamed through gritted teeth.

Remus called them both off, or at least he made a good attempt to do so: ''Sirius! Snape! There is no need for this, please.'' He spoke wisely, but it was a shame that they did not heed his words. There was too much history between Sirius and Snape for them to listen to good advice.

Severus swished his wand imperiously through the air: ''And yet you still continue to be a hound that obeys orders, _Black_. Never one to think for yourself. You are a follower and a madman. At least I never went to Azkaban for loyalty to a bullying _**swine**_.''

Sirius' temper was short. It was shortest when it came to insulting his best friend in the whole world: James Potter.

They continued to fight. Remus tried to block the worst of their spells, and sometimes he succeeded. But sometimes he didn't. Sirius shouted a raw, animalistic snarl when Severus had hit his shoulder with a muscle cutting spell. It was through the delirium pain brought Sirius that he said: ''James saved your fucking life, remember. I think you owe him way more respect than you know it. If it wasn't for him you'd be dead!''

Remus then interjected: ''And so would I be.''

Sirius faltered, blanche-faced. ''No, come on, Remus.''

Severus laughed. It was cold. ''Didn't think that one through did you, Black? You think Lupin had enough connections to avoid Azkaban for **murder** charges? But no, you never think about anything other than yourself, do you?''

Around this time Sirius decided that having a brain and being an adult about things wasn't something he wanted to do: ''You fucking deserved it.''

Never keen to be reminded of a harrowing and traumatic experience, Snape yelled: ''Sectumsempra!''

Remus rushed to block the spell with a potent protego shield. Again, he begged them to stop fighting, telling them that nothing good would come of this. ''Severus,'' and Remus was the only Marauder ever to attempt to apologise and try to be an adult after Hogwarts, ''you were on our side for so long. Tell us what happened to make you go back. If they have something on you we can help-''

Any professional dueller would be able to tell you that these conditions were less than ideal. Grimmauld Place had expanded, but duels still interwove like cross-stitching.

Avery Jr. attacked Remus. ''Two on one isn't fair!'' He'd seen Snape outnumbered and rushed to aid him. Unwillingly, reluctantly, but without any other choice, Remus pushed himself into a duel with Avery.

Sirius and Severus were both blinded by intense hatred and, yet again, they did not listen to Remus. Sirius casted like mad, going the extra mile to think of worse spellfire to attack Severus with. In retaliation, Severus realised that there would be no reasoning with his childhood enemy. He lunged into the offensive, harder and faster and with a lot more anger than he had ever figured was possible for him. Rage danced in front of his eyes. He thought of Lily, for a brief moment, and thought of what a different life he would have had there been no Sirius and James to bully and humiliate him. Years of torment flickered through his mind. Years of terror and anger and humiliation draped themselves on Severus like a layer of second skin.

Severus dodged a bone-sawing spell and breathed in. He'd been forced to be civil to a man (barely a man, a dog, a terrible, hideous, too loyal **dog** ) that had never done a single nice thing to him. He'd tried to kill him, using his lover without a care. How Remus could have ever forgiven him for that, Severus would never be able to understand.

Sirius had never apologized. A Black did not apologize. As much as Sirius hated to be compared to his mother he was more like her than any other black. Dumbledore had forced Severus to be civil. Whereas the Dark Lord had always nurtured Severus' darker thoughts and told him that revenge was sustenance and strength. That it was all right to have such thoughts. That those who hurt him deserved pain. Dumbledore was no more there to tug at his leash. Severus steadied his hand and glared into the unrepentant eyes of Sirius Black.

There was nothing else to do. He shot. With all of his might as a wizard.

A curse he'd cast many times in the war was so quick to conjure up again, if only one had the thoughts and feelings powerful enough. Green light burst jaggedly, ravenously charging towards Sirius. It hit him. Severus didn't see where. All he did see was the powerfully cut figure of Sirius Black falling to the ground with a resounding, final thud.

Severus shook and moved to take shelter. An emptiness stretched to envelop him whole. He'd thought that this would have brought him closure, but it didn't. Slowly he moved, numbly he looked around. Someone said something, he could faintly make out that the words belonged to Bellatrix, but he didn't understand them.

Something hot and painful smashed into his back and he fell forwards, hitting his head on the hardwood floor.

* * *

Death hopped from her corner to the scene. There was work to be done.

* * *

Not far away Bellatrix was focusing on Augusta. She had warned Severus, but he had not heard her. Sweat broke across her brow now. Augusta did not seem to be letting up. She was out for blood. Bellatrix could not blame her.

''General,'' a voice said. Bellatrix didn't dare to underestimate Augusta after this showing. Her curse had hit Severus and she looked unaffected (this could just be a rouse not to show her true, wavering hand, but Bellatrix would not put anything to chance anymore). Bellatirx refused to look away from the aged lioness. Yet she was thankful for the man the voice belonged to. She felt his presence next to her and managed to scoff out an endearing laugh. Finally, her lips quirked up in a mirthless smile: ''Junior.''

Together they would go against this woman and they promised to be victorious.

''Lady Longbottom,'' Bellatrix commanded, _''Yield_.''

''Not even in your wildest dreams, you utter cunt.''

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter of this bloodbath left, dear friends, and then we're going back to the never-ending trainwreck which is Tom Riddle. Hope you enjoyed, let me know what you thought or if you've got any theories as to what's going to happen next :D


	43. TBOGOP: Exhaustion

‘’You are a monster.’’ Augusta said. A shield sizzled around her. Her knees were beginning to shake underneath her. 

Bellatrix met Augusta’s tearful eyes. They were the same colour as Frank Longbottom’s, as that child she’d seen loitering about her ancestral home. A child she’d orphaned in every sense but the most literal one.

‘’Who taught you that word, Lady Longbottom?’’ Bellatrix took a step forward. There was tenseness around her black eyes. The way her fingers curled around her wand was stronger than a woman needed to press on a windpipe. 

‘’Excuse me?’’

‘’Monster. Who taught you that word?’’

‘’What are you playing at, you madwoman?’’ Augusta’s mind was running through a list of spells she could do wordlessly, a list of spells with a short pronunciation, and a list of spells that she wanted to hit Bellatrix with more than anything. 

Bellatrix wobbled. They’d been duelling since the beginning of all of this cacophony. She shared a look with Avery, who looked like he would not be able to fall back asleep even when all of this calmed down. Having him with her was a present. She was thankful. 

Augusta took a step backwards and held onto the fireplace with one of her hands. She leaned her weight on it and glared. ‘’Where are my children, Lestrange?’’ Her voice was broken. Her wand was wavering. Even she could understand that two against one was going to result in failure. ‘’They told me you went to St. Mungo’s with Crouch Jr.’’ How brave one needed to be, Bellatrix wondered, to have the guts to go through with asking this. ‘’What did you do with the bodies?’’

Avery caught Bellatrix when she finally fell. Second in command of the Dark Lord or no -she’d spent eighteen years in Azkaban. She would never be what she was. 

‘’I didn’t kill them, Lady Longbottom.’’ Bellatrix confessed. She was looking at Avery. His eyes were so soft when he looked at her. No one in her life had ever looked at her like this. 

Rodolophus’ eyes were brilliant and depraved. He only ever saw her as a means to and end. It was fine. That was their thing. 

Voldemort’s eyes were dejected and uncomfortable. He only ever saw her as a tool. It was fine. She was his General, not his wife. 

Fawley’s eyes. 

‘’I had it planned to kill them all together that night.’’ Bellatrix continued. ‘’I couldn’t bring myself to do it.’’

Augusta tried to move, but Avery, using both of their exhaustion against them, stole their wands to hold onto. This was why he’d survived the war. Bellatrix smiled at him. He was the most annoying person she’d ever met. 

‘’Give me back my wand.’’ Augusta outstretched her hand as if to cast a spell wandlessly. 

‘’Hear us out, you daft woman.’’ Avery had no tact. Bella’s head was splitting. Her muscles were weaker than she’d thought. It was cold. It was very cold. Her hands clutched around Avery’s robe. There was no one around her. Bella breathed laboriously. Her eyes were shot open. The air was filled with the stench of death. Bodies falling of frostbite, shells of the people they were, seeking out the Dementors to end their misery - to rid themselves of the self-awareness. 

Avery was speaking. ‘’We’re against the Dark Lord. He betrayed us so we went to the Order to pool our resources.  **Your** side struck first.’’ 

Augusta had struck first, at the sight of Bellatrix. She had been ready to see a murderer, a torturer, a monster - but she’d seen all of that and a traumatized woman to top it.

Augusta was observing Bellatrix fighting through these memories, through these shakes, and emerging victorious. 

‘’Where is my son?’’

‘’Not your daughter...’’ Bellatrix hissed. Clarity began to come back to her black eyes. ‘’Fawley was  _ never  _ your daughter. That night, Lady Longbottom, she begged me to spare her -did you know? Begged me to do it, because she never wanted you anywhere near her child.’’

Augusta flinched back as if burned. ‘’I … _ liar!’’ _

Bellatrix cackled. ‘’I knew her better than her husband did. Better than any of you!’’ 

* * *

Fawley was a brilliant young girl. One had to be in order to be Black’s most treasured companion. She was giggling at something Black had said. ‘’No,’’ she exclaimed, but giggled even louder when Black repeated what she’d said. This time she did it so everyone could hear her: ‘’Lestrange asked you out. Though, he asked me out  **first** . I need to clarify that.’’ Black’s brows danced. She placed a hand to her chest and lurridly whispered: ‘’I am of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, as you are well aware.’’

‘’Why would he ask us both out then?’’ 

They were inseparable and they were well connected. ‘’Lestrange doesn’t mind whichever one of us should have him. These are his words, mind you!’’ 

Fawley cried out. Her voice was going to give out from under her laughter. ‘’As if either of us fancies him!’’

Black’s laughter was coarser than Fawley’s. It was also louder. She said she’d inherited it from her scary aunt walburga. 

Across from them sat their least favourite roommate: Rita skeeter. She was sitting on her bed and reading a book with Charms, all while actually listening in. Black and Fawley stood up and on their way out, Fawley slapped the book out of Rita’s hands and said with a very mean girn: ‘’Skeeter, you know what you could do for me?’’

‘’What Fawley?’’

‘’Get a life outside of me and Black.’’

‘’It’s Black and I.’’ Rita corrected.

Black guffawed: ‘’You wish, Skeeter.’’

* * *

Lestrange had one objective in mind and that was to woo the two most influential Slytherin girls into falling in love with him. He didn't care much if his wife ended up being a Fawley by birth or a Black. All his parents cared for was that she was Sacred Twenty-Eight. 

He approached them at the dining table at the Great Hall and smiled at Black first, ‘’Hello, ladies,’’ then at Fawley, ‘’would you like some company?’’

Black looked at Fawley. She was pretending to examine her nails. Feeling Lestrange’s growing impatience, she raised her gaze, levelled it with his, and politely said: ‘’Black and I are very busy right now, Rodolphus.’’

Lestrange’s eyes sparked at hearing his first name. This was  _ progress _ . He bowed and bid them a good day. 

‘’What a fucking idiot.’’ Fawley said later. Black shook her head in disbelief at the man’s irritating tactics. 

‘’He has a brother you know.’’ Black formed a plan. It was ingenious. It was the best laid out plan she’d ever thought of. Hopefully she looked towards Fawley.

Her expression wasn’t yet illuminated by the sheer possibilities this presented. ‘’What of it?’’

‘’We could each marry a brother. It is expected of us to marry. Might as well make it count.’’ Black nonchalantly suggested, but her heart was beating fast. She hoped Fawley would not shoot the idea down. 

Fawley mulled it over. During Potions she leaned over to Black and whispered: ‘’I like it.’’ Black smiled widely, propriety be damned. They were in their seventh year at Hogwarts and nothing would deter them. 

Slughorn was teaching them about amortentia. Black’s father told her that he always asked the students what their brews smelled like, but the most recent Hogwarts alumni said that that had fallen out of practise. Fawley wondered who had scarred Slughorn so terribly as to never ask that question again. ‘’Maybe that someone’s potion smelled like dirty socks?’’ Black made a disgusted face. Fawley joined her in their mutual loathing for this someone whose amortentia smells like dirty socks. 

‘’Sir, I think I did mine wrong?’’ Arthur Weasley raised his hand. 

‘’Yes, Mr. Weasley?’’ 

‘’My potion doesn’t have a distinct smell.’’

Slughorn took a whiff of the potion, nodded, and said: ‘’No, this is perfect. You have done it well. What does it smell like for you?’’

Arthur Weasley’s face was as red as his hair. Black and Fawley leaned to listen in. Molly Prewett, who was sitting next to Arthur Weasley was looking at him strangely. He began to stammer all while glancing from the cauldron to Molly. ‘’Um. Well. Sir. Can I be excused -’’ without waiting to be excused Arthur Weasley dashed for the door. 

And before he made it past the door Fawley began to chant: ‘’Weasley and Prewett, sitting in a tree!’’

* * *

Weasley and Prewett did finally hook up. Fawley credited herself for that. ‘’If I didn’t humiliate him like that she never would have cornered him and told him that she liked him, too - ergo I have helped continue the Weasley line for generations to come.’’ She pretended to dust her hands off. ‘’It’s kind of fun to do something good for a change. Right, Black?’’

‘’Right.’’ 

‘’Indulge me, won’t you?’’ How did Fawley ever expect to be said no to when she used such a tone of voice. It melted like hot chocolate over viola strings that thrummed, ever so gently. Slowly, she took Black’s hand and kissed it. Black blushed and closed the space between them. They were alone in their dorm. Skeeter, Parkinson, and Shafiq had gone to see the quidditch game. Slytherin vs. Ravenclaw. 

Black and Fawley had much more pressing matters to attend to. Fawley led her gently into a kiss. When they broke the kiss, Fawley was looking at her hungrily. ‘’If you’re worried to get caught…’’ She licked her lips and how in Circe’s name could anyone say no to her, ‘’I know a room, Black.’’ 

‘’Lead the way.’’

The Room of Requirement was the best bloody thing to ever be created.

* * *

Black and Fawley were unstoppable in DADA, specifically the duelling segment of the class. The only ones that ever came close to posing a challenge were Frank Longbottom and Molly Prewett. Ever since the DADA prof made a grave error and paired Fawley with Longbottom Black began to see the cracks in her perfect life. 7th year was supposed to be the best, NEWTS be damned! But Longbottom and Lestrange began visiting the Slytherin table, specifically the part where Fawley and she sat. They visited to harass Fawley and her. 

Except this time when a boy asked them a question, Fawley answered it: ‘’I’m not sure for Black,but I don’t mind.’’

How in Circe’s name was Black supposed to answer. She forced a dainty smile to her lips and said: ‘’I don’t mind either.’’

* * *

Lestrange didn’t kiss. He fucking _inhaled_ her.

* * *

Fawley was happier with  _ him  _ than with her. 

* * *

Fawley married him. Black married Lestrange. It was expected of them. But she married out of love and not duty. Bellatrix (because she was no longer a Black, but she felt like no Lestrange) could not fathom such irredeemable weakness. 

‘’I love him. That means I’m letting you go.’’ Fawley (and she would forever be Fawley in Bellatrix’s mind) ‘’I hope you can understand.’’

Andromeda had fled and married out of love, too. That had hurt her. 

Bellatrix nodded. ‘’Of course. I understand. I’m … happy for you, Fawley.’’

‘’Alice. I’m not a Fawley anymore, Bella.’’ She had the audacity to wink. But oh. All of that would be forgiven; Hearing Fawley say her name was exquisite. Bellatix nodded again. What else was there to do. 

‘’Is he good to you?’’

‘’Wouldn’t have married him if he weren’t.’’

‘’That’s good. I  _ am  _ happy for you.’’ She was convincing herself. 

‘’How about Rodolphus?’’

Bellatrix would not speak ill of her husband. ‘’He has his uses.’’ not even in her wildest dreams would she imagine she’d be using him to barter with Dementors in Azkaban. 

Fawley took a hold of her hand, like she’d done so many times before and kissed it. ‘’For old time’s sake… I know a room?’’

Claiming Fawley in her own marital bed was just enough of an ego boost Bellatrix needed to survive her own marriage. It was magnificent, perhaps because both of them were aware that this would be their last time together. They made it count. 

* * *

For a while Fawley and she didn’t meet. It was dangerous. There was a war going on, after all. Bellatrix was rising in the Death Eater ranks. She was the Dark Lord’s favourite. His second in command even.

But Fawley was much too spirited to ever stand around at home and not fight. 

She met Fawley again on the battlefield. She’d become an auror like her husband. The uniform suited her. They looked at one another, sizing each other’s weaknesses and scrutinizing everything that made them interesting opponents.

Bellatrix gulped. Could she hurt Fawley? Did she have it in her?

It was Fawley that sent the first curse. It set the tone for the rest of the war. Bellatrix understood. There would be no holding back. They owed each other that much respect, at least.

* * *

‘’I backed off.’’ 

‘’You tortured them to insanity.’’

‘’Oh fuck off. It was either that or death. Death seemed to final.’’

‘’Too final? You call this MERCY?!’’

‘’It was meant to teach her a  **lesson** . She was meant to go to our side afterwards!’’

‘’You truly are insane.’’

‘’Perhaps.’’

* * *

At the Dark Lord’s orders Bellatrix charged into action. Rodolphus was by her side and at least Bellatrix had chosen right. At least her husband hadn’t corrupted her into becoming a blood 

traitor. 

It was later in the War. Bellatrix had become unstoppable. 

She had Frank Longbottom at her mercy. Her wand tip glowed green, but Fawley  **_begged_ ** . She’d never begged for anything. Bellatrix turned from her bound target and properly saw Fawley. ‘’Please, spare him, Bella.’’ 

The Dark Lord called her Bella. She preferred the way Fawley said it to his version. There were more memories. ‘’Bela, if you ever loved me, you'll let us both go, please.’’ she placed a hand over her stomach then. ‘’Please,’’ Bellatrix let them go. It was idiotic to have a child in this mess, but if anyone could pull it off, it would be Fawley. 

* * *

‘’Bet she didn’t tell you that.’’

Avery was away, looking around for survivors. They’d all landed in the Library and boarded themselves up, it seemed. Smart bunch. Even if they were outside to see Augusta Longbottom and Bellatrix Black talking, they wouldn’t be able to believe their eyes. 

‘’I will never sympathize with you, you monster.’’ If Augusta knew her son would be brought back to her if she lunged for Bellatrix and tore her throat apart with her bare hands, she would not hesitate. 

‘’Fawley called me that.’’ Bellatrix’s voice was distant. ‘’A monster.’’

* * *

Bellatrix would not let Fawley and her husband go the next time she caught them. She hoped that the next time they met would be under similar circumstances, out in battle where everyone could see that they were evenly matched. 

The Dark Lord, however, had different plans for Bellatrix. He sent her off to their residence and told her to break in like a thief if she must. 

‘’I do not care what happens to the Phoenixes, but you must kill their child. It poses a threat to me.’’ By this point her lord was no more and a shadow stood in his place, coveting ideas and so very little soul to be functional. ‘’Bella,’’ and the way he said it still made her heart dance, ‘’I entrust you with this. You are my most loyal. You are my best.’’

She’d bowed. ‘’Thank you, my lord.’’

That would be the hardest mission Bellatrix would ever be forced into carrying out. It was agony to be caught between the two people she loved most. For the Dark Lord she would do anything, but Fawley was someone Bellatrix was convinced she would have forever in her life. 

* * *

‘’I meant to kill them. Barty can tell you.’’

‘’Barty’s dead, General.’’

Bellatrix turned to Avery sharply. ‘’No.’’

Avery nodded. He offered nothing else. Nor did she ask it of him. 

Augusta kept sneaking glances towards Snape’s body. It  _ had  _ rattled her, then. 

* * *

Bellatrix was just so resentful towards Frank Longbottom, that she began with him and didn’t know when she became enough of a monster to attack Fawley. 

Still, as she watched her writhe and curse her to the ends and back, Bellatrix thought that this was what she deserved. 

* * *

Slowly, Bellatrix rummaged through her robe pocket and pulled out two marbles. She threw them to the ground and whispered an incantation. They transformed right before Augusta Longbottom’s eyes into her son and daughter-in-law.

‘’I came here to barter with you.’’

Augusta didn’t hear what Bellatrix was saying. To know that her son was alive and well (as well as one could be under his specific circumstances) was all that mattered. 

Fawley wasn’t observing how Augusta hugged her husband. No, her eyes burned into Bellatrix's. 

‘’I can undo what I’d done.’’

Augusta was crying into her son’s shoulder. But she registered this in her mind. Because for the very first time she looked at Bellatrix like she could be of use, like she wasn’t just there to cause Augusta boundless grief. 

‘’We came here, Lady Longbottom, in order to gain access to that accursed library. For the knowledge we needed we would in turn hand over our knowledge that would help…’’ and for the first time Bellatrix forced herself to say this, ‘’...Alice Longbottom and your son.’’

‘’Why?’’

Avery answered this one. ‘’Well, we’re all very angry at the Dark Lord. Most of the parties on our side hate him for very personal reasons - I’m personally fighting the good fight now because there isn’t anything better to do.’’ 

Augusta and Bellatrix both could agree on one thing: Avery Jr. was a piece of work. 


	44. Terms and Conditions

Walburga Black spotted her son’s cooling body and mechanically moved towards it. Her steps reminisced that of a swaying soul who had lost its sway. She fell to her knees, not minding for the pain that would hit through her with the act. With bitterly warm hands she caressed his dreadfully cold face. Like a small babe she cradled him.

She wept for her son and rued how selfish she was not to at least apologize. Now it was too late and she would have to live with it. In his world, much alike in the world of Orion and the world of Regulus – there would be no sign of her. And this was what she had wrought down upon herself. While a mother mourned for her eldest child the rest of the world went on to collect the dead.

Bellatrix closed her eyes so she wouldn’t be able to look at Barty. This was one sleep he wouldn’t be able to wake from. Avery squeezed her shoulder. Bellatrix scoffed at his impertinent gall. It was new to her. Or she’d forgotten forwardness after so long a time trapped in Azkaban.

The dead, everyone agreed, would be burned. ’’Except for Eileen’s boy.’’ Walburga’s voice cut through their planning. The Snapes were not practitioners of the old ways. They did not fret for the bodies of their dead and if they would be turned to vampires or inferi. ’’She would want to bury him and talk with him.’’

So, Thoros Nott stepped up to the task. He took out his wand and cast controlled fiendfyre at the corpses. They had given him a room very far from where everyone was. In case that he burned the damned place that no harm would befall them.

Thoros emerged victorious against the dead. ’’It is done.’’ He said. Everyone nodded along. Walburga was the quietest everyone had seen her. This didn’t bode well for anybody.

’’What about the injured?’’

Ron Weasley had seen better days. Narcissa was pretending that she was not in pain (this was a skill all women learned at some point in their lives). Draco hadn’t seen a healer since his de-petrification so this would be a good opportunity to do so. Lucius grabbed Narcissa and Draco both in a vice grip and announced to the world that his family was in dire danger of dying terrible, painful deaths if he didn’t get them to a healer right this instant and that now that everything had considerably calmed they really didn’t need to be here anymore. ’’Ciao.’’

’’We need Cissa for the ritual.’’ Andromeda waved. All eyes looked at her. She was holding a book she’d unearthed from the Black Library. ’’The damage one Black makes must be mended by more to truly show our apology to the hurt parties. It’s all here in the Book of Spells Children Should Not Touch. Very to the point, I must say. My great-great grandmother knew what was going on.’’

Walburga glanced over to Augusta and how she held onto her very much alive son. Alice Longbottom continued to burn holes into the back of Bellatrix’s head. Whether her niece noticed or not she did not let on.

’’Can’t we just hop on quickly to St. Mungo’s –’’

’’Lucius, I swear to all of the Gods that anyone has ever believed in – shut up. Your poor attempts at running away are futile.’’ Bellatrix sneered. Narcissa lovingly pat Lucius’ hand and whispered that everything would be all right.

’’Where’s Hermione?’’ Harry first noticed. He was pretty scraped up, as well. Though, Neville was the most emotionally scarred out of the lot of them and he really needed someone to look him over, or at least force-feed him calming draughts.

’’Where the fuck is Abraxas Malfoy?’’ Moody’s electric blue eye surveyed the surroundings. He stomped about on his peg leg and snarled. ’’Did he run, that traitor?’’

’’Someone should go to Eileen and hand her Severus’ body.’’ Walburga whispered. Her mind was only occupied by death and dead sons. ’’I could go.’’ Slowly she rose, but Bellatrix gently pushed her down. ’’I think the Tonks’ could go. Well, not Andromeda, obviously we need her for the ritual. But an auror and a muggleborn coming to their doorstep would be better received than us.’’

Ted and Tonks went to deal with Severus and the Snapes.

Neville, Harry, and Ron were accompanied by Molly to St. Mungo’s. Their cover story would be that they’d gotten into a pub fight over romance.

’’Wait for the sake of the cover story who’s the girl we’ll use?’’

Draco sputtered. ’’Aren’t you all just one haircut away from professing your undying love for each other?’’

’’Excuse me?’’

’’What the fuck, Malfoy?’’

’’You can’t say something like that and not explain it!’’

’’Well,’’ Draco pointed to Harry, ’’we all know you’re bisexual. You’re obviously crushing on Weasley who’s been your friend since forever. It’s kind of sweet. Neville is a variable we haven’t really given much thought, but by the way he’s always following you two around and sitting next to you during meals at Hogwarts was too convenient to be true.’’

’’We’re friends, man, not everything is about feelings and romance.’’

’’Also, who the fuck is ’we’?’’

’’Us, Slytherins. Theo and I got sloshed with the rest of the Slytherins once during our seventh year and made a diagram of who was hooking up with whom in our year. We all agreed that you three were just one illuminating conversation away from hooking up.’’

’’WHAT THE FUCK MALFOY?!’’ Harry, Ron, and Neville were stammering and pointing at him all while sputtering about how this was totally not okay and that they were all really good friends.

Draco nodded. ’’Sure, whatever helps you sleep at night, Potter.’’

’’Stop teasing them, Draco.’’ Narcissa chided him fondly.

’’You know what we haven’t done?’’ Lucius remembered. ’’We haven’t told the Greengrass that we’d found Draco. They were ready to find Astoria another match. We can’t let that happen.’’

Draco, who’d spent a small, but unforgettable chunk of his life petrified, puffed up his chest, straightened up his posture and tried to use the most commanding voice he could: ’’Actually, father, about that...’’

Once his father’s silver eyes looked into his, Draco deflated like a balloon. ’’Nevermind.’’

’’No,’’ Lucius had vowed to be a better father than Abraxas, and that meant encouraging his son to speak, ’’what is it, son? You can tell me anything.’’

Draco summoned all of the strength he had in order to say: ’’I do not want to marry Astoria Greengrass.’’

’’She’s too young isn’t she?’’ Lucius nodded sagely.

’’I told you so.’’ Narcissa told him so.

’’Cissa, please.’’

’’And I think I’m gay.’’

’’Okay. Well. Who isn’t in this family... still – we’ll find you a nice girl with no expectations.’’

’’And I’m seeing someone. I think. Before I was petrified we hooked up.’’

’’Well, son, that’s lovely.’’

He was contemplating how to say this next bit. It would be best to just put it out there: ’’He’s a vampire.’’

Draco counted to three in her mind. ’’HE’S A WHAT NOW?’’ Lucius and Narcissa were outraged. Muggleborns they’d learned to tolerate, but vampires would forever be blood sucking parasites.

Draco, sensing danger and a lecture about to come from his parents, turned around to the merry gryffindor bunch and said: ’’We’re going to St. Mungo’s now. Bye!’’

’’Draco, get back here.’’

’’Draco, darling, don’t you dare walk away from us!’’

The boys ran. Everyone watched them go. O, the speed of youth.

* * *

Abraxas and Hermione were nowhere to be found.

Walburga finally got up from her armchair and stalked up the stairs. She wanted to see Regulus’ room. Once at the room’s door she got an intense urge to go to the Library instead. Walburga Black gritted her teeth and fought through the compulsion.

* * *

’’GET OUT OF MY SON’S ROOM YOU BLOOD TRAITOR!! DON’T YOU START NOW MUDBLOOD!’’

’’How dare you?!’’

’’HOW DARE I? MY SONS ARE DEAD, GET OUT!  **_GET OUT THIS INSTANT!_ ** ’’

’’Walbie, my condolences-’’

’’THANK YOU! NOW GET OUT AND NEVER COME BACK!’’

* * *

Abraxas Malfoy and Hermione Granger were extracted from their hiding spot and put in the real world where problems couldn’t be solved through talking. Well, actually, they  _ could  _ be solved through talking and coming to a mutually beneficial agreement. It was just a lot more complicated to do it when everyone was angry at one another.

’’Hello, Orion.’’ Abraxas winked at the portrait.

The man winked back and luridly greeted back: ’’Hercules.’’

Hermione wrinkled her nose at this: ’’Hercules?’’

Abraxas laughed. ’’Oh, a quidditch nickname.’’ He struck a mighty pose. ’’Bludgers beware, the Slytherin Beater has the strength of Hercules at his disposal! No one calls me that except you, old friend.’’

’’I started it, I’ll call you that to your grave.’’

’’Ha.’’ Abraxas, currently immortal, had a lot to say to that. ’’Your wife is in your youngest son’s room mourning both of your children. Won’t you join her?’’

Orion nodded and began to shove the other portraits on his way to the room. ’’It is what loved ones do.’’

Abraxas turned to see Lucius and Narcissa seething at something. ’’The nerve of that boy, Cissa. He gets this from your side of the family. A vampire, Narcissa. How could we- oh father hello – a VAMPIRE, NARCISSA!’’

’’What about vampires?’’ Abraxas grimaced.

’’Your grandson is apparently enamoured with one.’’ Narcissa, too, wanted to distance herself from this situation.

’’Oh gods.’’

’’YES!’’

’’How could you raise him to be like this?’’

’’We aren’t at fault here –’’

This went on.

Moody had to break it up because Narcissa was going to stand on her broken ankle and fight Abraxas Malfoy with her wand drawn up. ’’Don’t you dare blame me for your Malfoy genetics!’’

’’Andromeda went off and married a muggleborn – your cousin was in love with a werewolf.’’

’’Abraxas, your  _ aunt  _ married a muggle – let’s not get into this nonsense!’’

’’You leave my Aunt Sevin out of this. She’s been properly disowned since before I was born.’’

’’You told me she married a squib?’’

’’I lied to protect your feelings, Lucius, goodness – a father tries to do one good thing for his son.’’

’’Not this again.’’ Narcissa raised her arms in the air and limped towards her sisters.

* * *

There was a serious complication with the Black plan to save the Longbottoms. Bellatrix and Andromeda were talking in hushed tones.

’’We need five.’’

’’Five?’’

’’Sirius is dead and ash. We need five.’’

’’Fuck.’’

Narcissa wound up interrupting them. She had a look of murder in her eyes: ’’I am angry. Let’s get Aunt Burga and do this.’’

’’We need a fifth.’’

This was the last thing she needed right now:  _ ’’Fuck you.’’ _

’’What the hell did I do to you, Narcissa?’’ Andromeda shook her head.

’’She’s just bitter her son’s fucking a vampire.’’

’’I’m beginning to like that kid now.’’

’’Silence you  _ harpies _ .’’

* * *

If they didn’t go through with the Longbottom ritual they would not be pardoned. Or allowed to conduct further experiments on how to remove the Dark Mark. So, Bellatrix was growing antsy. This fabled book was in a dead language called Ye Olde Black Codes that Bellatrix was too rebellious to properly learn, Narcissa was too invested in learning about mermaids to care, so the art of deciphering these old books fell on Andromeda’s bloodtraitor-y shoulders. The irony was great.

’’Says here that if there are not enough Blacks by birth to help with the ritual a Master of the Mind may work.’’

’’What’s this Black by Birth nonsense. Married into Blacks are taught legilimency and occlumency, too.’’

’’This is a really old book. It wasn’t common practise to do that until the 19th century.’’

’’Did you teach Nymphadora?’’

’’Oh gods I tried. She didn’t pick it up.’’

’’That’s a shame.’’

’’What about you and Draco?’’

Narcissa’s face soured at the memories. ’’He’s too... sensitive.’’

They decided to take the conversation public. ’’We need a Master of the Mind.’’

’’There are five in Europe.’’ Moody supplied. He knew these things. ’’Voldemort is one.’’

’’So, there are four in Europe.’’

’’Albus Dumbledore is an unofficial one.’’ Moody added.

’’He’s dead.’’ Abraxas answered. Everyone turned to look at him. He shrugged and looked away from their hungry gazes. The Order had no idea. He twiddled with his thumbs and fanned their looks away. ’’What are the other official Mind Masters?’’

’’There is Izet Fazlinović.’’ Bellatrix remembered his persuasion skills. The way that man knew how to con was legendary.

’’Dead.’’

’’Now that’s a right shame.’’

’’Carmelita Garcia Lopez?’’ Narcissa heard her name be tossed around.

’’Presumed dead after she staged a coup d’etat on a conference in Munich.’’

’’Tove Koivu?’’

’’Retired.’’ Moody crossed his arms.

’’Do we really care about retirement?’’

’’And also in Faerie on vacation.’’

’’Well, that makes Tove not so easy to track down.’’

’’Who’s left?’’

There was silence in the room at such a question. Hermione didn’t know what was so wrong with asking. Abraxas caught on and laughed, tone of voice high like a peacock. Narcissa pursed her lips together and whispered: ’’We’re fucked.’’

’’What’s with the crass language today, Cissa?’’

’’I am tired of propriety.’’ 

‘’You are validated.’’ Bellatrix patted Narcissa dearly on the back. ‘’Curse all you like.’’

’’Who’s the last Master of the Mind?’’ Hermione asked again. It couldn’t be anyone bad, could it? Not worse than Lord Voldemort surely?

* * *

Mandy Leach had her legs propped up on an ottoman now that she was in her own home. She’d had a stressful day at work and wanted to unwind with a glass of red wine and seasonally appropriate music. Her record player was enchanted and played a classic for these winter times.

~I really can't stay ~

’’Baby it's cold outside.’’ Mandy sang.

~I gotta go away~

’’Baby it's cold outside.’’ She took a sip of the wine and reminisced of a time when it wasn’t just her singing this song alone.

~This evening has been~

’’Been hoping that you'd dropped in.’’

~So very nice~

’’I'll hold your hands they're just like  _ ice _ .’’ Her voice broke on the last word and she spelled the record player silent.

’’My beloved.’’ She covered her eyes with one hand and whispered: ’’My dear, dead men.’’

* * *

Once the Black sisters dragged out Walburga Black from her son’s room they told her that the situation was dire. ‘’All of this hangs by a small, thin thread, Aunt Burga. We’re all counting on  _ you  _ not to be a bitch to Madame Leach when she comes here.’’

‘’I can behave myseLF IF SHE DOES AS WELL, THAT CANTANKEROUS MUDBLOOD!’’

* * *

That Cantankerous mudblood, otherwise known as Mandy Leach, emerged from the fireplace slowly. She nonchalantly fanned the soot off of her clothes. The first person she saw was the one that had called her: ‘’Alastor, consider me surprised. You were once on my husband’s security detail and yet I find you in the presence of his murderers now. Perhaps I shall decide to finally scour your mind and see if you, indeed, let him be killed that day  _ knowingly _ .’’

Alastor Moody grumbled under his breath and retreated. He did not say anything to Mandy Leach. Her presence in the Ancestral home of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black was taken as a peculiarity by the portraits. 

Only one shouted at the top of her lungs: ‘’MUDBLOOD!’’

Mandy Leach looked around and found the source. It came from a portrait of Walburga Black. The real banshee was not talking. She didn’t speak a single word either when Mandy Leach swished out her wand from underneath her sleeve and sent a black spell skyrocketing at the portrait. In mere seconds it was torn to shreds. ‘’Yes, for all of you wondering, it is applicable to living people, not only portraits.’’ Then she added, quite casually for someone in her position, ‘’And, yes, I will use it on you if you give me a reason to. Now that this is out of the way, hello to all of you that do not know me, I am Healer Leach.’’

Abraxas attempted to be cordial. He waved around his hands, causing his sleeves to slide down to reveal skin riddled with deep scars and, what was more interesting to Leach: a bracelet full of symbols. 

‘’You have a whole person on your bracelet, Malfoy.’’

The Order members latched onto the bracelet and asked what Leach meant by this. Abraxas sputtered and tried to switch the subject, but she would not allow him. ‘’You have dragged me into this mess, proper, I shall out you as holding back information. He has Lord Voldemort’s horcruxes on his hand. By the looks of it there are all of them there.’’

‘’Harry Potter is one!’’ Abraxas shouted. 

Molly Weasley looked just about ready to fall down. Arthur caught her. 

‘’Harry Potter used to be one.’’ Hermione illuminated. ‘’While he was a horcrux he could speak with snakes, after getting attacked at the Quidditch World Cup, he stopped speaking parseltongue - ergo, it is safe to assume and even conclude that Harry Potter is not a horcrux anymore. It is also very obvious that Harry was made into one accidentally. I mean, Mr. Goldsmith - er - Voldemort told me some things about horcrux creation. All  _ hypothetical  _ of course!’’

Abraxas and Mandy had flashbacks to Slughorn in that moment. 

‘’He taught you dark magic?’’ Moody inquired. 

Hermione refused to cower at his mighty gaze. She stood her ground and admitted that, yes, ‘’We talked a lot about many different topics. It’s not like we would do anything with it. Knowledge cannot hurt you.’’

‘’Wait...how did you meet with Voldemort?’’ Mandy asked, focusing on this child in front of her and ignoring the adults who desperately needed her. 

‘’There was this mentorship program.’’ And then Hermione, now that she was overall more calm than before, came to a deliciously terrible realisation. Slowly she turned towards Abraxas Malfoy and took out her wand. ‘’I should have gotten Gilderoy Lockhart were it not for you, YOU PIECE OF SHIT!’’

Abraxas Malfoy raised up a shield with the elder wand. Hermione sent a few spells at it, to test its potency. She found it extremely powerful.

Moody noted that his wand was not the same willow wand he always used. ‘’That’s Dumbledore’s wand you prick!’’

‘’I can explain!’’

Walburga remained seated while Round Two of The Battle of Grimmauld Place began. Mandy gestured her face and hissed: ‘’Stand up, you inbred bitch.’’

Said inbred bitch did not deign to stand up. ‘’No, you filthy mudblood.’’

‘’That word holds no malice in my heart anymore. You have no power over it and you have no more power over me.’’ Mandy held up her wand, oak, and slipped these next words out like the sweetest lullaby: ‘’But you need me. And since you need me, Black, you have to do as I say.’’

Through gritted teeth Walburga admitted that she wasn’t wrong. ‘’You have already destroyed my portrait, what more would you want of me?’’

‘’I want my husband back, of course but I know you cannot help me with that.’’

Walburga’ lips twitched. ‘’That death brought us more evil than any before or after him. If we had only known.’’

‘’You killed him because he was not a pureblood.’’

‘’ _ We  _ did nothing. It was Abraxas Malfoy. He was not acting on anyone’s orders. It was he and he alone that killed your husband. ‘’

Not far from the two emotional-baggage heavy-weight champions that were Walburga Black and Mandy Leach, Abraxas Malfoy had just admitted to being a Hallow Holder, immortal, and having killed Albus Dumbledore. There was snot all over his face as he tried to explain that Albus had asked him to die. ‘’I am so sorry!’’

‘’Mr. Abraxas, WHAT.THE.FUCK?’’

‘’Hermione, dear girl, I am going through a lot right now.’’

‘’You didn’t mention this in therapy time.’’ Before Walburga had dragged them out of Regulus’ room, Hermione and Abraxas were scheming a scheme. They were, also, having a therapeutic talk about their fucked up lives and their connection to a guy who wasn’t emotionally sound enough to admit to love. Though, Hermione did say that he said he loved food. Abraxas said that it was good of him to practise. ‘’Maybe one day he’ll actually say I love you to a human being.’’

However, they had much pressing matters to attend to that had very little to do with their corroding mental health. Moody was shouting: ‘’YOU KILLED ALBUS DUMBLEDORE!’’

‘’I did, yes! I am so, so sorry.’’

‘’Well,’’ Arthur always looked on the bright side of life, ‘’at least this proves he hasn’t eloped with Gellert Grindelwald like the papers say.’’

‘’Did they really use the term elope?’’ Bellatrix was flabbergasted. 

‘’All but.’’

A little back where the real power play was happening, Mandy was seated next to Walburga. ‘’I could just take my revenge and scar you like you did me. Why did you scar me, Blak?’’

‘’It was such a long time ago, who can remember why one scars a lesser.’’ Walburga Black forced a smile to her lips, if only to irritate Mandy Leach. 

‘’Alastor told me your son’s died.’’

‘’He has.’’

‘’A shame. The one good thing you ever made - dead.’’

‘’What do you want from me?’’

‘’I am thinking.’’

‘’Would you like your husband?’’ Orion Black’s portrait smiled and waved once all of the attention was directed to him. He looked like a man with a plan. Possibly he was the only one with a plan in this begotten house. 

‘’Talk, Portrait boy.’’ Mandy gave him permission with a hand wave. He mockingly bowed. 

‘’Ever so pleased to be allowed to speak my mind in my own home. Thank you, Madame Leach.’’ Orion cleared his throat and announced, loudly, so everyone present could become privy to the conversation. ‘’I may either make a complete arse of myself or I may save the situation entirely. This depends on laws I have not followed that have come after my death. Keep a civil tongue now, and do pay attention to what your resident artist has to say.’’

Orion liked to think of himself as an artist, mostly because fairies respected artists and if he ever came to a situation where he needed to barter with a fairy, he would use this to his advantage. The parties present, however, were not fairies and cared not if he was an artist. For the sake of moving the narrative on, the would hear him out. 

‘’Madame Leach desires only one thing! A thing she firmly believes is out of her and our reach. Sneaky, sneaky Madame Leach - she does not wish to help us so she thinks of requests that are beyond our comprehension. Her husband, the late Minister Leach, you know, that person that died a very heinous and unspeakable death which has led us to war and we are still trying to survive the consequences of said war. Yes, we are all acquainted with the players now.’’ Orion peered peculiarly hard at Molly Weasley. ‘’There is nothing better to do than listen to all of you talk and scheme the destruction of Tom Riddle. Yes, gasp all you like, please, and entertain this old portrait. I speak his name and fear no fallout. A portrait is never his target. You all underestimate how much a portrait is like a human being. We have cognitive thought. It depends, however, on who paints us. I admit, I could have made my beloved Walburga’s portrait a tad less… loud.’’

‘’You painted that thing?’’ What few fans Orion Black had, he would lose when he answered affirmatively to Lucius Malfoy.

‘’You bastard.’’

‘’You ruined my hearing thanks to that banshee of a portrait.’’

‘’The fucking nerve of you.’’

‘’How dare you speak to us?’’

Orion Black turned to his wife and she shrugged. ‘’You’ve been derailed, honey.’’

‘’I really have.’’ Orion sighed. Then turned to the mass and clapped his hands. ‘’Stop it. I was actually getting somewhere with this. Mandy Leach wants her husband back. The body of Nobby Leach may be gone for good, but the spirit of Nobby Leach may still be salvageable through his portrait!’’

‘’His what now?’’

‘’All of the Ministers get painted.’’

Mandy Leach’s left eye twitched. ‘’They said it was burned.’’

‘’They lied to you.’’

‘’Excuse me?’’

‘’A Ministry portrait cannot leave the Ministry, not even to be given to a grieving widow.’’ Orion shimmied in his portrait. He had everyone’s attention again and they were not shouting insults at him. In his humble opinion this was a success. ‘’It was easier to lie to you, Madame Leach, than to explain.’’

‘’But it is not where all of the portraits are.’’

‘’Well that’s blood prejudice and conservatism. Nobby Leach did always have a mouth on him. Very distracting. The portrait is someplace in the deep bowels of that bureaucratic machinery.’’

‘’I AM NOT SLEEPING WITH UMBRIDGE AGAIN!’’ Thoros Nott was still having flashbacks. 

‘’No one is asking you to, Thoros, goodness!’’

‘’NEVER AGAIN!’’

‘’Tis fine, my dear friend, tis perfectly fine.’’

Mandy Leach regarded Orion and said: ‘’You are certain of this. Do you think they did not simply destroy him?’’

‘’It is sacrilege to destroy a portrait of a Minister. Especially because the painter has them all cursed. Anyone that wishes them harm will die. Perhaps we should have cursed the Minister with such a curse. We could have avoided a war.’’ Orion laughed and levelled his eyes on Abraxas. ‘’Would you like to humiliate your husband’s killer, Madame Leach? Have him go to the Ministry and find the portrait himself?’’

Mandy Leach blinked at such a proposition. Her lips curled in a smile. She had a beautiful smile that didn’t look beautiful in Abraxas’ perspective: it looked positively malicious. ‘’I find that I would quite enjoy watching him do that, yes. Also, Walburga Black must apologize for my face.’’

‘’I apologize for trying to make you look acceptable for public viewing.’’

‘’We’ll work on that.’’ Orion promised Mandy. 

Meanwhile Abraxas was forced to his feet and told to go to the deepest bowels of the Ministry and fetch Nobby Leach’s Ministry portrait. 

‘’Where is it?’’

‘’Gods strike me down if I know.’’ Orion shrugged. 

Abraxas threatened to wash his paint off and turn him into a surrealist’s watercolor. 

Soon everyone was squabbling and trying to draw plans of the Ministry in order to pinpoint the exact location of the Minister’s portrait. 

‘’Maybe the Unspeakables wound up with it?’’

‘’If that is the case we will never find it.’’

‘’Madame Leach, may we interest you in something else?’’

Like a petulant child with all of the power in the room, Mandy Leach grinned and threw back her head to laugh at such a preposterous preposition. ‘’I want my husband’s portrait and nothing else. Or I’ll take all of the horcruxes?’’

‘’No, no. We can find your husband’s portrait.’’ Abraxas quickly shouted, grabbing hold of the bracelet tightly. 

‘’What the bloody hell would she do with the horcruxes?’’ Alastor Moody wondered aloud.

‘’As much as we would like to think we know the Ministry… there is no way we can find it without having someone on the inside.’’

‘’I just show up to speak to the Minister.’’ Lucius defended himself when they all looked to him. Next they switched their gaze o Arthur who stumbled through his explanation: ‘’I only know my area of work. Sorry.’’

‘’We need someone who would die for that bloody place.’’

‘’That ISN’T BLOODY UMBRIDGE!’’

‘’Yes, Lord Nott, someone who isn’t Umbridge.’’

‘’Well…’’ Molly dared speak of a person who wasn’t on speaking terms with her, ‘’there is Percy?’’

‘’Mollykins, dear, he said we were stifling him and branched off to be on his own. To make it out into the world on his own merit. The very last thing he’ll want to do is talk to us.’’ Arthur then aired out some grievances how his son Percy had decided that he could do better than his family. 

‘’Where is he?’’ Lucius asked. ‘’Where did they shove such promising youth.’’ The last part was said as derisively as possible. The Ministry loathed the youth. The youth was only ever there for fetching coffee or cleaning rainy coats. Or there to be yelled at. 

‘’Personally I never checked. I wanted to honour his request to keep out of his climb to the top. It can’t be anywhere useful, though.’’

‘’They never put the young people anywhere useful. Not without serious connections.’’

‘’Poor Percy.’’

* * *

Percy Weasley didn’t have his own office. It would be ludicrous to expect one when he’d just started working this level. Parchment rolls stacked his desk. He would need to go through them by the end of the day. The room smelled like sewage. Mostly because the squib janitors kept their dirty mops in this room, as well. 

Stacks of toilet paper made a small tower on his left side. At least he never had to worry about running out while at work. His desk was incredibly small. His chair was smaller. Percy tried to spell them bigger, but every morning he would come to the small sized ones. It’d become repetitive. Once, Percy swore that he’d seen a mouse. It ate something that had died in a far corner of his office space.

But even that wasn’t the worst of it. 

No, the worst of it had to come from the portrait mounted on the wall straight across from his desk. It was of a man with a brown mustache. He twirled it while he talked. And talked he only did. No matter the silencing charm Percy cast on the damned thing, it wouldn’t stop talking to him. It wouldn’t stop  _ singing  _ to him.

‘’Minister Leach,’’ Percy cupped his head in his hands and whispered,  _ ‘’please _ , shut up.’’

_ ‘’But Percy! I am just getting  _ **_started!’’_ **


	45. My Fair Minister How Unfair We've Been

Abraxas Malfoy had gone to the Ministry of Magic before 1968 and then after it. He was not exiled from the structure, nor was he welcomed with pleasant smiles. It was his right as a citizen of Wizarding Britain to enter it and leave as he pleased.

Yet when he came to the Ministry this January morning, his heart was thrumming in his ribcage like a chicken's last scream before an axe cut its throat and splattered its blood across the hay strewn floor of this imagined countryside. Abraxas preferred the countryside. It was one of the reasons why his family lived and continued to live in Wiltshire. The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black was decadent in that way and relished living in the city where murders were planned, joyful meetings of utmost importance were held, and the centre of the world bowed to them.

The Malfoy family remembered that they were the nouveau riche among the Sacred Twenty-Eight. They were the Frenchmen and women; they were the accursed fairy-fuckers come to litter their perfect society with thoughts outside of their own; they were the ones who willingly took to bed halfbloods and didn't discard them afterwards.

Abraxas tried to channel some of that strength and knowledge, some of that adaptability that came from his ancestors in a neat and genius package. Because at the mere thought of going into the Ministry and lucidly searching the portrait of Nobby Leach out was too much to bear. His chest constricted another scream that wished to tears itself through his form, leaving nothing behind but a depraved and admittedly hideous monster.

The horcruxes hissed. The Hallows silenced them.

Abraxas carried on, but once he exited the Ministry elevator his foot caught onto the ledge and he began to fall forward. A strong, wilful hand caught him in time. He turned to his saviour and gave her a saddened, apologetic smile: ''My apologies, Minnie.''

Minerva McGonagall had been chosen by the Order to accompany Abraxas on this journey. She pushed up her glasses and told him that it was no trouble at all, but that it would do Abraxas well to not make a habit of falling face-first onto the marble floor.

''Of course.'' He smiled quaintly.

Abraxas was wearing a glamour and it did not irritate him. There was no cough when he did magic. No lung splitting illness rummaging through him. He was whole. And, frighteningly enough, immortal. Until he killed Tom Riddle. Lord Voldemort. _Montgomery bloody Goldsmith?_

''We ought to find Percy Weasley.''

As luck (cough the author's need to move on with the plot cough) would have it, Percy was very nearby, trying to buy himself a cup of coffee to get on with the gruelling days of his newest Ministry job.

Minerva and Abraxas very casually inched towards him. Pretending that they'd run into him by sheer accident. Percy was too exhausted to tell the difference. ''It's good to see you professors.''

''Yes, quite. Now,'' Abraxas coughed, ''a question for you my dear chap-''

Chap? What, had he become the new Dumbledore?

''Sir, I do understand that you are important.'' Percy Weasley had had enough of being a slave to toll away to the whims of those who were not his boss. He was not a footboy for every goddamn senior in this Ministry. ''But I have my work to do that is of worth, too. I will kindly ask that you go on with your date and leave me out of it.''

''Date?'' Minerva McGonagall laughed, taken aback by her once-student's fictive imagination.

Abraxas straightened out his rainbow coloured robe, slicked back his hair, and whispered: ''Once you go Malfoi, you never think there's anything better pour toi.'' And then he winked. At. Minerva.

Minerva closed her eyes. ''Ask him if he knows where Leach's portrait is before I truly lose my mind.'' It took her all of her self-discipline not to burst into laughter at Abraxas' dramatics. She couldn't help but admit to herself that having him so close, first as a colleague and now as a partner in unfinished crime did make for an interesting and highly excitable life.

And then she would remember that he'd killed Albus and things would grow cold once more.

''Why are you looking for Nobby Leach's portrait?'' Percy narrowed his eyes and adjusted his glasses so they weren't sliding off. He held the cup of coffee in one hand and took a sip. He drank his coffees cold, it seemed.

Abraxas couldn't understand such a monstrous action – and he'd sent a man to die via snake eating.

''It is classified business.'' Minerva whispered and placed a hand on Percy's shoulder, tightening her hold on him and giving Abraxas an opening by having Percy Weasley's attention on her.

''Classified how?''

''Unspeakable even.'' Minerva gravely answered.

Percy's eyebrows jumped at that titbit of information. Hearing the word Unspeakable was enough to get any ministry official interested and terrified at the same time, how could new blood only react? Why, Percy Weasley must be out of his right mind just by the thought of handling such important information.

Or so the adults would like to think. Percy shook Minerva's hand off and asked: ''Why didn't the Unspeakables tell you where his portrait is?''

''Because they cannot speak, goodness , boy – it is IN the name.'' Abraxas shook his head.

''No, they _can_ talk.'' Percy believed in fact. And fact it was that Unspeakables could talk, it was just that they couldn't talk about what they were doing in the vaults they occupied down in the deepest depths of the Ministry.

''Have you ever truly seen an unspeakable talk, Mr. Weasley?'' Minerva questioned.

Now Percy was starting to think that Unspeakables really couldn't talk and that this was just a gathering of extremely intelligent witches and wizards who were, also, mute.

Abraxas and Minerva were a very persuasive duo. Especially when one had the elder wand to cast a couple of suggestion charms.

''I suppose you really are doing good, then.''

''Of course we are, Mr. Weasley.'' A trusted character like Minerva McGonagall was never put into question. ''Now, do be a good lad and tell us the location of Minister Leach's portrait.''

''He's in my office.''

''Wait _really_?'' Abraxas couldn't believe his luck. Minerva couldn't either. (The author could, though)

''Yes. I can take you both.'' Percy discarded his coffee and beckoned them to follow.

Abraxas and Minerva exchanged a look between one another. ''We make a fine team,'' Minerva had to admit. Abraxas' face lit up at the praise.

* * *

  
Percy led them to his office. The further down they went the more it reeked of sewage.

Minerva, honest to goodness, _hissed_. She recoiled from the stench and covered her nose with her hand. ''It is disgusting here.''

''You get used to it,'' Percy told them. ''I'll move up, I swear.''

Abraxas' eyes were watering. ''Live your best Kafkaesque life, Percy.''

Percy nodded. ''Thank you, sir.''

''Do you actually smell anything?'' Minerva had pinched her noise. Abraxas giggled once he heard the nasal question.

''I can indeed.'' He said. His face was trapped in an eternal smile, because the inadequate working conditions of one Percival Weasley were absolutely terrifying to witness.

''But the cocaine?''

''Minnie,'' Abraxas exhaustedly went on to explain, ''I am _extremely_ wealthy. There are so many healing procedures in the world. After rehab I got my _nosey_ problem fixed.''

''That pun is terrible.''

''I am trying. Anyhow, I've got to reapply the smell monthly and I get to smell. I find it a very fine deal, indeed.'' He snapped his fingers and joyfully grinned.

Percy opened the door to his workspace.

Abraxas gagged at how tiny it was. ''Not even Tom Riddle's first apartment was this small?! Percy, child, how do you LIVE LIKE THIS?''

Percy shrugged. ''It is how it is, sir.'' He still spoke in that melodic, brain-washed tone.

Abraxas called the suggestion spell off and hit him with a sleep-jinx post haste. The boy fell to the ground and slumped his head forward. Once he raised his head from his work he glanced to Minerva. She was deathly silent. Her eyes glued to the sight in front of her.

Slowly he followed it.

A man raised and lowered his brows. He twirled his moustache. Brown eyes sparked to life. His lips parted to reveal a brilliant line of pearly white teeth. The robe he wore was a light blue: his favourite colour. In an interview he'd said it signified a bright future.

Abraxas took a step forward towards this man. There wasn't a single thing that he could bring himself to say. The only course of action he saw was to marvel at the man's awesome presence. Awesome, in its basest, oldest meaning.

Both of the man's hands were on his hips. His smile crooked and words manifested in the room: warmly, clearly, succinctly.

''Hello, Lord Malfoy. Have you come here to finish the job?''

The horcruxes hissed. The Hallows hissed. Abraxas bolted out of the room.

* * *

Minerva got the portrait down. Nobby Leach was laughing his arse off. He was holding onto his stomach and wheezing through fits.

''Professor Minerva, did he just really run away from a portrait?'' His voice was hysterical. ''What can I do to him like this? I cannot even throw paint at him!'' There weren't tears in his eyes, but were he a person there would have been. Through gasps of air he managed to say: ''I cannot believe this. Oh, this has made my day. This has made my week. This has made my _eternity_!''

Minerva scoffed. ''Minister Leach, if you haven't got anything constructive to say before I shrink you and put you in my pocket – I would recommend silence.''

Nobby Leach's brown eyes were intense to hold eye contact with. Minerva unflinchingly did her best, but she looked down to a sleeping Percy after a moment. ''I am taking you to your wife.''

''Mandy?''

''You do have only one wife.''

Nobby Leach's expression melted from elated to soft and quiet. '' _My_ Mandy.''

Minerva waited for him to say something else. When he didn't, she shrunk him, and tossed his portrait into one of her robe's pockets. When she found the elevator she felt like a very high-class criminal. This was the first time, as far as her history knowledge served her, that someone would successfully steal a Ministry portrait from the heart of the Ministry itself.

Inside the elevator she saw Kingsley.

''Ah, Professor McGonagall,'' her student smiled up at her, ''how are you?''

Her student, who was an auror, who could arrest her –Minerva tried to play it cool. ''I am well, thank you.'' If he tried something she wouldn't have qualms with putting him to sleep, as well. ''How are you, Mr. Shacklebolt?''

''Kingsley, please. '' He grinned. ''I've been doing rather well with the aurors. There may be a promotion in the works for me.''

''How wonderful.''

Minerva couldn't wait for the elevator doors to open. The music was horrendous. The small talk was even worse. Nobby Leach's portrait nestled in her pocket. Minerva would not survive today. This was not her element. Hogwarts was her element. Why couldn't Voldemort have attacked Hogwarts instead of laying low like this and making them come to him? She had always wanted to cast a spell to animate the statues of Hogwarts to aid the school.

The elevator doors opened. Minerva sprinted.

She looked around the atrium for Abraxas. He had glowing eyes and hair –how could she not spot him in a room full of people? Ah, yes. Right. Minerva had forgotten the most chaotic thing that came with being a Hallow Holder, as he called himself – the invisibility cloak.

''I am LEAVING.'' Minerva McGonagall announced to seemingly nobody, like a person who did not have all of her facilities in check. The things she did for Dumbledore's memory. ''I am leaving NOW.''

Nobody made a show of stopping her or joining her. Minerva cursed under her breath and decided to think of where a disgruntled Abraxas Malfoy would go.

''The killer does return to the scene of the crime ~''

''Shush.'' Minerva patted her pocket. The last thing she needed was for people to hear voices coming out of her pockets. They may ban all pockets for women for such a misconduct.

It didn't hurt to check. Minerva glanced back to the heinous elevator and grumbled under her breath that none of this was worth it. She went back to it. This time she didn't see Kingsley or Percy. This time she saw a woman who was drenched in fame and fortune.

''My, my, my!''

Minerva's lips parted to greet the shark to end all sharks. The harbinger of chaos unlike any other. Her quill danced and wrapped around her.

''What brings Professor McGonagall to the Ministry? Is it juicy? Is it exclusive? Your kind doesn't often come here. ''

''My _kind_?'' Minerva's lips twisted in a sneer.

''Professors!''

''Well, Miss Skeeter-''

''Rita, please!'' Rita Skeeter was the most famous reporter in all of Europe for not only outing Albus Dumbledore as a Grindelwald supporter, but for keeping actual tabs on Grindelwald's whereabouts. Her hounds were working their very best to bring HER readers information the fastest. His last sighting was in Hungary. Though, a different source said it was Albania.

''It is very lovely to see you again.'' Minerva wasn't a natural liar. Yet, to be perfectly honest, she felt no guilt for lying to this fiend.

The elevator doors opened before Minerva could say anything that would implicate her. Rita joyously swayed in the elevator. She was still riding the high of being so important. Let her. At least she was against Grindelwald. In this day and age it was uncertain whether or not people supported Nazis. Though, Grindelwald supporters would argue that Grindelwaldism did not equate Nazism and that it was incredibly rude to lump those two vastly different beliefs together. Minerva, and every other sensible individual left on this forsaken rock, wouldn't deign this with a response.

In front of her was the Minister's floor. Paintings lined the walls and chatted among each other. There was a blank spot for where Nobby Leach's portrait was meant to go. Minerva noticed that the floor over there seemed to move. She took her wand out and approached.

''Abraxas, is that you?''

There was rustling of fabric that further distorted the view. Invisibility cloaks made the wearer invisible, but it wasn't as seamless as most thought. The clash between reality and fabric could be noticed. Minerva had a cat's sight, after all. This was not a great feat.

''Abraxas, take that preposterous thing off and speak to me.''

He finally shrugged the cloak off of his head. He looked very sad, with worried eyes, and a big frown. The glamour continued to hold. Sadly he sighed and glanced back to a spot without a portrait. ''This Ministry is commemorating my worst deed.''

''Killing Dumbledore?''

''That was a pity kill, Minnie.'' Abraxas snapped, self-consciously, defensively. ''He wanted to die and made me a part of the damned process.''

''Wait you killed Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore?'' came a voice from a pocket.

Abraxas' eyes widened. Minerva took out the portrait and went to silence it with a spell, but Nobby Leach gesticulated madly to be allowed to speak. ''You owe me this much, you vultures. I want my last words to _not_ be rolling that horrendously long name on my tongue.''

Minerva looked right and left as if she was a cat about to cross the street. Seeing that there wasn't anyone on this floor because the Minister, himself, was meeting someplace else – she handed Nobby Leach's portrait over to Abraxas.

Very carefully he took hold of it. Brown eyes stared into silver. Silver looked away. Brown eyes had the most irritating laugh. Abraxas' hands tensed tightly.

''Lord Malfoy, Lord Malfoy, you have come to my humble abode once more. This time, however, as a man on a mission fuelled with sobriety. You are sober, yes?'' Nobby Leach's voice was grating to listen to. It wasn't objectively: it was clear, and concise, and beautiful. But Abraxa was reminded of his deeds when he heard him. Deeds that were so terrible he couldn't speak of them.

Albus Dumbledore had asked him to kill him. Albus Dumbledore should have already died.

Nobby Leach was **_murdered_**.

Abraxas had murdered him in cold, unsatisfied blood.

''I am sober, thank you for asking.'' Abraxas tried to speak. It was a heavy task. His tongue was barbed with wire his memories wrought upon him. When he spoke it felt like he was cutting himself with painful, jagged cuts. His mouth swam with blood. His head swam with guilt. His heart beat to the melody of a man that was not among them.

What kind of existence was a portrait?

''Good. So, you killed Dumbledore?''

Scandalized gasps littered the hallway.

''This is most unwise to speak here.''

''Most unwise indeed. I have nothing to lose. I am a portrait. Minerva has caught you red-handed trying to steal me away from my rightful place.''

The Hallows hissed. Abraxas scoffed, siphoning their power to speak back to Leach. ''I will not be intimidated by you.'' He swirled a potent spell through the air with the elder wand and cast the portraits to stop moving.

Nobby Leach whistled. ''How ingenious. I never believed in your tall tales. Well, the better term would be fairy-tale, yes?'' The Ravenclaw questioned, pressing a hand to his chin in deep thought. His foot tapped against the portrait's floor in an arrhythmic, atonal melody. Then it switched over to a melody that Abraxas could swear he'd heard someplace.

The man swayed in the portrait and waited, humming a tune to go along with the melody of his tapping. Minister Leach was a musical man. His wife and he sang to entertain at the Ministry functions. He played the piano.

Abraxas played the piano, as well. His mother had made him learn an instrument. All children from the Sacred Twenty-Eight learned to play an instrument in order to temper their magic and learn better control. Only Walburga Black, however, dared to go the extra mile and pick up to learn the hurdy-gurdy.

He had pianist fingers. Abraxas didn't. His weren't nearly as long or as elegant. Abraxas' hands were calloused from holding the beater's bat too tightly. The top part of his hands were thin with skin and veins were prominently displayed. How could he ever possibly compare to the Minister? A man that had won over the hearts of thousands as easily as Abraxas lost the hearts of thousands by opening his mouth and saying something stupid, showing the world how sad and ugly and –

Abraxas took a step back.

Nobby Leach stopped humming.

Minerva grabbed the portrait before Abraxas fell on his arse.

''I cannot kill Tom.''

''Of course you cannot.'' Nobby Leach scoffed. To him this admission was the most normal and expected one to hear. ''Tom Riddle died in 1942, after all. He calls himself Lord Voldemort. Maybe if you ever bothered to learn the difference between using a name he abhorred – with good right may I add – and using the one he chose for himself , you wouldn't have felt threatened by me.''

_''T-threatened?!''_

Abraxas sputtered. This was slander. There was no other word for it. He sneered at the portrait and told him that he thought way too much of himself.

‘’Why else would you have killed me?’’

‘’You were going to take Samhain away from me!’’ Abraxas’ voice broke. ‘’I did not know it was you that Tom –‘’ Nobby Leach’s smile turned knowing and mocking, ‘’ ** _Voldemort_** decided to get to know behind my back.’’

‘’How am I someone he got to know ‘behind your back’ when I am the first one that ever offered friendship to him? I offered him power and he took it.’’ Liltingly, nonchalantly, carelessly Nobby Leach said all of these things. Not minding for his reputation in these parties. What did a portrait have to care about, anyhow?

Minerva McGonagall was learning things she had no idea were there to be learned. She looked at her wristwatch and found that being a third wheel was something she enjoyed even less than being a criminal.

‘’Do you want to know why Voldemort first came to Mandy and me?’’ Nobby Leach was so smug. Abraxas was too angry to feel guilt. He growled out that he would very much enjoy hearing this side of events. ‘’It’s because he had nothing to gain from you anymore. You were off doing God knows what. Ruining your mind. Also, cute kid by the way, Lucius spent a couple of nights at my place because Vol deemed it unfit for a child to be in your care whilst you were, _ahem_.’’ Nobby snorted. He laughed. It was a rich sound. ‘’I got my grubby little mudblood hands all over your heir when I read him bedtime stories. Not that he remembers it, of course, but the kid doesn’t remember half of what went down in the sixties. Vol obliviated him often. Poor kid. Nobody deserves a father like you. Your actions only made Vol reminded of his father. The callousness, tsk tsk. _Not_ a good look on you.’’

Then, too giddy that he’d set himself up for a pun, Nobby Leach continued: ‘’Speaking of _Nott_ , where is your lackey?’’

‘’Thoros is not my _lackey_.’’ Abraxas felt exposed. It was like everything he was ever worried about was slowly being peeled down for the entire world to hear by this man who could read people just as well as Tom could; who could have quite possibly taught him to do so.

‘’Really? You could have fooled me.’’ Nobby went on. Not bothering to wait for anyone else to say something. When his mind was turned on and occupied with one thought he would not stop until he got everything out of it. This was what made him formidable. ‘’Always followed you around. Never got to do anything what he wanted because you didn’t like his ideas for fun. I listen, Lord Malfoy. Unlike you. I actually hear what people tell me and, more importantly, what they _don’t_.’’He clapped his hands. ‘’It is obvious that everyone around you only sticks around because of your status. Not like me. Not like Voldemort. The difference between you and I, Malfoy,’ ’Nobby Leach tired of showing respect to the man that had killed him, ‘’is that the people I surround myself with are here to stay whether I have money or not. I heard about your billionaire status, by the way –good job. Maybe some more people will pretend to like you. Like _Minerva_ over here!’’

Abraxas was this close to destroying the portrait. Minerva caught these impulses and told him to knock it off. She turned to Leach. ‘’You need to stop, as well. We are here to take you to Mandy Leach so she helps with a ritual. Whatever it is that you two had, I suggest you deal with it somewhere less conspicuous.’’

‘’Hmm.’’ Nobby hummed. ‘’I think I have gotten it through to you that whatever you may want to do with Voldemort will fail. You couldn’t even cast a killing curse at me. Your bloody _acrobatics_ speak for what kind of person you truly are, Malfoy. You hide. You can’t do anything on your own.’’

Minerva silenced Nobby Leach’s portrait. She had a firm grip on Abraxas’ hand. ‘’Abraxas, look at me.’’ He was shaking. He looked up. ‘’I am not next to you right now because you are wealthy. Nor because you are a pureblood.’’

‘’No, of course not.’’ Abraxas nodded. Minerva was about to say that she was glad to hear it, but he then said: ‘’It is because of the life debt.’’

‘’Oh for Godric’s sake man. I _care_ about you!’’ Minerva would rather get shot than to be sentimental. This was why her attempt to show her feelings to Abraxas was a sight to behold. It was very bad. ‘’You’re an arse, but you’re a fine arse.’’

Abraxas smiled. ‘’You really think so?’’

‘’Of course, I think so. Don’t let a bloody portrait get you down like this. Yes, you have made mistakes. Yes, some of these mistakes are absolutely dreadful and you ought to get a trial for them – and yes, I suppose, you are an absolute prick sometimes when you haven’t woken up properly – but I tolerate your presence because I like you. Not because I _owe_ you a life debt.’’

‘’Until it is resolved, I really don’t think I’ll truly believe-‘’

Minerva transfigured Abraxas into a bowling ball, took him, and threw him down the nearby stairs. Just before he would fall, she turned him back into a human and grabbed him with a levitation charm. ‘’Count us fair and square now.’’

‘’You could have killed me?!’’

‘’As if this is the worst thing to ever happen to you!’’

‘’Minnie, this is the most heart-warming thing you have ever done to me. I shan’t forget it!’’

‘’Let’s just go.’’

‘’Yes,’’ Abraxas said, now from the ground, ‘’let us abscond.’’

They went to the elevator. Nobby Leach’s portrait was in Minerva’s pocket.

Abraxas had the dumbest smile on his face. Minerva tried to fight down her smile. She never could beat it down when around Abraxas.

* * *

Bellatrix Black, Walburga Black, Narcissa Malfoy nee Black, Andromeda Tonks nee Black, and Mandy Leach joined hands and began to chant from a very old book.

Through their collective magic they helped bridge the lost, grasping minds of Alice and Frank Longbottom with their bodies.

They summoned the magic of their ancestors to help guide them on this journey. Walburga mumbled under her breath that she wished for them to forgive the strenuous circumstances that forced them to be nice to a known mud-ggleborn.

Mandy Leach hit her in the shin with her foot.

Orion's portrait and Nobby's portrait spectated. Nobby waved at him. Orion tired, truly he did, to ignore the compelling man.

Alice's eyes first began to take on a hue of clarity. Followed quickly by her husband. Augusta let out a sob.

Bellatrix chanted. Her face was scrunched up in concentration, but she made eye-contact with Alice and saw Alice Longbottom nee Falwey.

Once the ritual was finished, Bellatrix collapsed forward from exhaustion. Narcissa was panting heavily and holding onto Andromeda. Mandy tore Walburga's hand off of her and righted her disheveled appearance.

''I am leaving now. Do not contact me or my husband ever again.'' She gently held the portrait of her husband and walked through the front door, passed by the wards, and disapparated.

Alice Longbottom did three things when her facilities were put into order:

Hugged her husband.

Told him she loved him.

And found the nearest wand to crucio Bellatrix Black with.

Bellatrix **_screamed_**. How could she not when seventeen years of pent up rage of a mother being deprived her son was aimed at her?

''Bellatrix, shut your infernal mouth!'' Walburga, ever supportive, shouted.

* * *

Moody had tried to get the Longbottoms to stay and fight with the Order in this perilous battle against Lord Voldemort, but Alice had gritted her teeth and snarled through them: ''I am DONE with the war. My family is DONE with your war. Goodbye. Augusta, let us go.''

Around this time, Narcissa quite literally fainted. Lucius finally had a valid enough excuse to flee this madhouse with his wife. ''Ciao, goodbye, arrivederci, dosvidanya, au revoir – my wife is ILL!''

Andromeda took a few pepper up potions and left. ''I really don't want to be here anymore. Good luck. I did my part. Now it is up to you.'' She left for the Tonks residence to reunite with her daughter and husband.

* * *

  
Hermione twiddled her thumbs. She hadn't even gotten a chance to ask the Minister portrait a thing. She wanted to ask him for pointers. Someone of her kind that actually succesfully climbed the ladder had to have things to tell her? Well, she'd missed her chance. It wouldn't do her well to ruminate over it.

Minerva and Abraxas leaned on each other. They were sitting together. Moody glared at them with his good eye, but he took charge and stood to delegate the beginning of this meeting.

Arthur and Molly sat next to each other. Thoros and Walburga sat next to each other. Zephyr and Bellatrix. The only other spot freed up was next to Bellatrix. Hermione reluctantly sat next to her.

Bellatrix glanced over to her. ''Why are you here?''

''I found him.''

''Through that mentorship program?''

Hermione nodded. Bellatrix laughed out loud abruptly. Her body was shaking, convulsing with the after-shocks of the cruaciatus curse.

''It isn't funny.''

''Do you like him~''

''What kind of question is that?''

''Don't be afraid to tell good ol' Bella, now _. I_ liked him quite a bit when I was young and impressionable. I was smitten.'' Bellatrix grabbed a hold of Hermione's wrist so she wouldn't wiggle out. Zephyr carefully made sure that no children got maimed. Or that no children maimed his beloved General. Whichever came first. _''Smitten_.'' Bellatrix's veins popped as she forced herself to say.

''I do not like him like that.'' Hermione tore from her grip. She rubbed her wrist and hissed. Bellatrix's hands shook. Avery decided to switch Bella's and his seats. It would be easier on his nerves. Hermione was thankful for it.

''I was smitten enough to go to Azkaban for him.'' Bellatrix said. Her magic was intense. Her magic was hungry for revenge. ''If you are smitten with him, do not be. If you are wondering whether he cares for you, he does not. Take it from his second in command. He has discarded me like he will everyone who stops being of use.''

Hermione nodded. She didn't want to believe her. This was splattered across her face and Bellatrix laughed, yet again.

Moody shushed them. ''The meeting has commenced, **Black**!''

* * *

Abraxas played with the bracelet and the charms. They hissed at him, but he could not understand them well enough. The Hallows were intefering with the signal, so to speak.

Death was in the corner of the room, her long, bony arms crossed at her chest. Her skull was upside down, yet the holes peered into Abraxas'.

Quietly she spoke. He heard her song. Moody's battle planning was loud, but it didn't matter. Abraxas heard Death tell him something important: ''We are close to fulfilling our deal, Abraxas. Lord Voldemort will be no more.''

This should have filled Abraxas with happiness. It only unnerved him. He tensed up next to Minerva and she placed her hand above his in comfort. Abraxas willed a smile to give her. His conversation with Nobby Leach had rattled him, but this conversation would destroy him, he felt.

Her incandescent robe sparkled with constellations. It moved and Abraxas felt as if he was bared before the sky and its infinite space. A piece of _insignificant_ speck... No, wait. He really was trying to be better at this self-esteem nonsense now.

Teeth chattered a symphony. Her fingers tapped along the wall. Words that came out of her slightly-unhinged jaw sounded more like parseltongue than they did human words, but due to their connection he understood her.

''Your mind is scattered on mortal deeds, Abraxas. I will help you see what it is you need to do. You hurt so badly for a man who left a vial by chance. He was indifferent to you getting better or dying.'' Death never lied. Especially not to the Hallow Holder. These were all truths that Abraxas didn't wish to see.

Through the masses she glided and placed a chilling, skeletal hand to his face, as if a mother about to check her child for fever. ''You are **_aching_** , Abraxas. You are burning a flame for a man who will gladly burn you with it.''

Hadn't he heard something similar once from his father? Abraxas couldn't recall. Her hand pressed harder. Her words whistled like a sparrow right before its last breath. ''Hermione Granger is a child who aches for a father-figure. A small human that aches for someone to understand her. A better master will come to teach her. I see it.'' A strange thing for someone without eyes to say, really, but Abraxas believed Death.

Moody was saying something. People were nodding along.

''Let me help you, Abraxas. Nobby Leach has found love. You will love another, this I see. Only if you unburden yourself from him.''

Abraxas couldn't do that. It wasn't right. His chest was constricted. Breathing became a chore. Minerva squeezed his hand and he flickered his gaze from hers and Death's.

Death craned her head in a direction no human body could withstand. Abraxas' eyes were wide. Fear pooled in his stomach. ''Your conversation with Nobby Leach should have only served as proof that he never loved you. You saw what him loving was. Nobby Leach and Mandy Leach know this. You cling onto someone who sees the world as enemy ground. Why would you suffer through this?'' her words made sense. Abraxas inhaled. They made so much sense. ''Go and have your vengeance. Once you finish him, only then will you be free to live your own life.''

Abraxas closed his eyes. Everyone was contributing to the conversation with Moody except him. No matter how much he tried to tune Death out, he couldn't.

Her words made so much sense. Too much sense. He didn't feel free now and he wouldn't feel free until he dealt with Lord Voldemort.

Clatter from Minerva shifted Abraxas from Death to her. She was objecting to something. Bellatrix was laughing, but he couldn't hear her laughter. He could see it. Abraxas gathered that was enough. Death caressed his cheek and whispered: ''I will guide you, Abraxas. Have I led you astray so far?''

''No.'' Abraxas answered.

Minerva used this to mean that he agreed with her because she was now standing and pointing at Moody. She looked a frightened sight.

''Then do as I say, my sweet, kind Abraxas.'' Death crooned.

Abraxas closed his eyes and agreed. ''Yes.''

Death disappeared soundlessly. Abraxas opened his eyes to a maddening sight.

Hermione Granger was standing in the room. All eyes were on her. She placed a hand to her chest and vowed not to let them down. ''I _can_ do this.''

''Do what?'' Abraxas had come late to the party.

''This is madness!''

''She is far too young!''

''Alastor, are you out of your mind?!''

''HOW CAN WE EVEN TRUST THIS CHILD? SHE IS HIS PROTEGE!''

Moody fired a stunning spell into the ceiling. It silenced the group. Once this was done, he went on in his grouchy, hoarse voice: ''Hermione Granger is the only one that can get close enough to Riddle. Their mentor-mentee bond disallows him from hurting her. The girl is willing. We have no other choice.''

''Hermione?'' Abraxas echoed. ''Our Hermione?'' He looked towards the young girl. She had her jaw in a tight wind, but even though everyone was telling her that this wasn't her battle to fight, she persevered and said that this was the **_right_** thing to do.

The right thing to do?

Abraxas outstretched his hand towards her. All of the sounds and shouts were rocking and shaping into one joint sound of cacophony.

Hermione was saying something else.

Abraxas wasn't ill. The illness had left him in Greece. This was worse than any illness.

A chill was creeping up his spine in gentle, ghostly touches. It reaches his head and plunged deep, as if without fingers –as if, instead, with **_claws_**.

Death crooned:

_''My beloved Hallow Holder. I cannot leave anything up to chance anymore.''_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> END OF ARC 2 BABY  
> INTERMISSION TIME BRINGS US TWO THINGS: TOM RIDDLE AND GELLERT GRINDELWALD
> 
> ARC 3 BRINGS US MANY THINGS, MOST NOTABLE OF WHICH: ABRAXAS MALFOY VS TOM RIDDLE


	46. Intermission V

Gellert Grindelwald was on the run. He was cloaked with a shoddy invisibility cloak he'd lifted from a passerby, armed with a wand of a witch that detested magic, all while being near dehydration. This wasn't a good look on him.

He rummaged through his extended pockets and sought to find anything that would prove helpful to his situation. The world was currently plunged into anarchy as every government (except for the Swiss, they coveted their utmost neutrality even now) deployed a couple of mages to keep an eye out for Grindelwald's whereabouts.

He was public enemy number one. Gellert was flattered, at first, until he realized what a big fucking shitstorm he'd entered. Priorities changed and he needed to find asylum quick. He had a few contacts in Asia that would help him out (for a price, of course). He just needed to find a portkey across European borders.

Through a series of events that weren't unfortunate, but were equally as morbid – Grindelwald wound up loitering around an Albanian forest. He saw house not far from him and decided that it couldn't hurt him to try. There was a very high chance that he'd run into a supporter of his.

What that said about the world didn't matter.

Though, what did matter for the sake of this story's progression was the identity of the two people Grindelwald saw in the house.

One of them had scales instead of skin, red eyes that luckily could camouflage him as a vampire, and a look about that him that his entire life had been wasted on self-loathing. Grindelwald didn't catch his name. He blearily turned to the other figure. This one was emaciated with fang marks all across his pale, sickly skin. He was older than the first man. His name, too, Grindelwald failed to catch.

''Hello,'' Grindelwald said in English, defaulting when speaking to someone outside his country, ''I would like water. Yes. Thank you.'' And then he collapsed. It wasn't one of his prouder moments, but he, too, was a human being with limits.

''Fucking shite is that Grindelwald?'' Tom Riddle whispered in one of his more eloquent moments.

''It appears to be so, my boy.'' Horace Slughorn whispered, his eyes shot wide in utmost disbelief.

* * *

To shed more light onto the dynamic duo which was Horace Slughorn and Tom Riddle one first needed to lay the ground for some intense foundation work. This wasn't a complicated matter at all. Honestly, it could all be explained away with a spring cleaning excuse that didn't happen in spring. Though, to be fair – whoever decided that Spring was the ultimate time to clean house was a miscreant who'd never learned that boring January was where it was at.

Lena Ajeti had made a small... decision around the time before the infamous conference back in last year. She'd caught a man attempting to break into her house and decided that instead of butchering him on the spot with her own claws she should shove him in the basement and drain him periodically of blood. This was a common practise in the vampire community. Though, it had fallen out of use because it wasn't progressive and respectful towards other creatures on Earth's plane.

A couple of months had passed and the Merrythought wives didn't look like they were the type of people to understand Lena's blood bag situation. She pushed silencing magic on him and made sure to threaten him with violence if he spoke out of turn or tried calling for help.

This was a stressful way to live. Lena didn't think she could make it. She needed to get rid of the damned thing before any of her wives caught on.

The perfect out presented itself in the form of Tom Riddle, who'd arrived after having been kicked out of Montenegro by Zorka for exploding her cabin. It held a lot of memories for her when she'd had a husband and a son.

Lena wrote down a chore list for Tom to do while she, the Merrythoughts, and Nagini went off to India to kick some mage's arse for cursing Nagini's family line with the maledictus curse. It was supposed to be a good team-building weekend.

Tom tried asking them if he could come along, but Galatea told him that he had a problem with casting unforgivables and that she didn't want to put him on the spot. They were really going to savagely beat the daylights out of this mage. Nagini hissed out a couple of remarks in parseltongue that had Tom sigh and agree to hold down the fort here in Albania.

''You cast an unforgivable at me, though.'' Lena narrowed her crimson eyes.

''A load of good that has done me. I wasn't even thinking when I did it.''

''Could you kill someone without magic, do you think?'' 

''I would not know.''

''I mean you cannibalized people!'' Merrythought, ever vigilant, shouted. ''Didn't you eat that woman's brain?''

''Mrs. Cole.''

''You ate a brain?'' Lena was very close to throwing up. ''Don't you know how many diseases you can land by eating a raw brain?''

''I found out the hard way.''

''Ugh.'' Lena wrinkled her nose. ‘’Madman.’’

Beatrice and Nagini were talking, attempting for once not to make everything about their problematic son. Tom didn't know what to think about his growing mum count. He missed Slughorn, in a way. He was the only man Tom genuinely believed cared about him.

Lena dragged him outside and then dragged him farther until she was sure nobody could hear them. Tom made a joke about wanting a last meal, at least. His mentor rolled her eyes and bit out that he ought to be silent.

''I do not know why I still care about you.''

Tom knew he had this effect on people. It was his special orphan charm, sprinkled ever so slightly with disastrous impulse control. The ladies couldn't resist. Mostly these ladies wanted to mother him. He had an unbelievable abundance of mother figures. It was insane. He ought to be some textbook example of an outlier.

''Though, because for whatever reason I still do care I will give you a second chance. You do not deserve one, by any means, but I am trying to be kinder to all of Earth's creatures so I shall _try_.'' Then before Tom could thank Lena, she procured for him an ungodly list of chores that went on and on and on and on. ''Finish these before we come back and all will be forgiven. Goodbye, son.''

She slapped him hard on the back and he staggered forward. He crinkled the paper in his hands and cursed under his breath. It felt like the Orphanage all over again. Except Mrs. Cole didn't tell him to help himself to the fridge or the television.

Tom submersed himself in the beauty of menial tasks. Days passed and he really had a knack for cleaning windows, and kitchen counters, and the fridge, and the floor, and the carpets, and the television (though he had accidentally disconnected it, panicked, and had to go get a muggle to help him connect it back). While he did this he had a lot of time to think about his life and what would be next.

What would be next in his life? Tom thought that he would never again even dream of going by his birth name. A gift or a curse shoved onto him by his mother. He had yet to decide.

He switched a channel on the television. Albanian news. Another one. Albanian news. Another one. Back to the first channel. Tom decided to go and boredom-eat some almonds. He came back to the news. Unrest in Kosovo. Tom felt a little bit like Kosovo. He took another handful of almonds.

The list of chores had only one thing left: Destroy Blood Bag.

Tom Riddle, for the life of him, had no idea where Lena could keep a person. He'd gone in the attic and found memoires of her time as Zef. There was even a faded photograph of young Tom Riddle exhaustedly smiling. Lena really knew how to push people to their limits.

Of course, he'd called himself Lord Voldemort then. Zef had beaten him in combat and forced him to tell the truth of his identity. Tom remembered that his damned mentor had nearly twisted his wand arm off like he was some bloody doll. And then once Zef had learned of Tom Riddle, he'd called him Voldemort. Saying something about not keeping secrets in his – her – Tom was having a problem remembering his mentor this way. He put the photograph back in the photo album and went to find any secret locations where a person could be hidden.

He looked at Lena's extensive library and places his hands on his hips. ''Did she transfigure her blood bag into a book?'' Gods, he hoped not.

While on his search for the blood bag he wound up rearranging Lena's library in alphabetical order. She would thank him later for it.

At the end of his wits Tom cast a person revealing charm. There was one beneath him. ''Ooh. Must have an entrance outside of the house. Underground tunnels and the lot, very smart, dear, dear Lena.''

So he scoured the outside area for a secret entrance and found one. He allowed himself to celebrate by hissing a few praises his way. Nobody could outsmart Tom Marvolo Riddle, genius extraordinaire.

The tunnel was full of dust that Tom wondered if he should clean. He had a rather good track record with cleaning spells. At the end he decided not to. It wasn't on the list and he didn't want to get Lena mad about putting his grubby little hands all over her death tunnel.

What he did do, however, was cast a lumos spell. It helped. Barely.

At the end of the tunnel there was a small shift where he could see a bed, chains at the wall, and a crumbled, inwardly-curled man shivering in the cold. Tom cast spells and saw that Lena had cast on him preservation spells, but that she'd not made it kind for this man.

Tom thought about the killing curse. It would be merciful in such a situation. This poor man was probably having some sort of fit in his sleep because he kept shuddering and crying out, rattling the chains that bound him in this tunnel. Lots of good fun. Lena must have been having such a gag of a time tormenting him.

But she didn't want her little harem to see her as a monster and sent Tom as her dutiful son to take care of this unseemly hiccup.

He couldn't do it when he thought about it. Tom groaned deeply in the back of his throat and stepped closer to the man. Against his better judgement he grabbed his shoulder and turned him around to face him. His wand was still glowing with light, shedding it onto the man in question.

Tom took a step back, and then another one, and then two at harsh speed. His wand didn't fall out of his hand, because that was something he would never allow himself, but he recognized this wisp of a man, this shadow of a once important figure in his life.

''Professor Slughorn.''

The man's eyes slowly opened. He saw red and tried to scream, but his voice had been cut off by Lena's magic. She wanted him silent and pliant to her torture. By reading his lips Tom could make out a series of 'no' and 'please' 'I shan't make noise' 'I promise not to do anythig' 'I will do whatever you say' 'Please do not feed on me anymore' 'I am dying' 'Please'.

''Sir,'' Tom conjured enough strength to go back to him and shake him fully awake. ''Sir, I am not a vampire.'' He had red eyes. He had scales for skin. He was just as much of an abomination as Lena was. The only difference was that he did not feed on blood. ''Sir,'' he vanished the spells on Slughorn and broke him out of his shackles, worriedly beginning to think if he could help him out of this without any long-lasting physical consequences.

''Let me help you up. I'll go and get you a blood replenishing potion. I'll get you nutrient potions. Though, you'll have to tell me the dosage, as I am a tad frazzled at the moment. My life has gone tits up.'' He thought about Nobby Leach, about Abraxas Malfoy, about the current social political situation in the Balkan and thought that depression was never nearer.

Having Slughorn break down on him, clinging onto him all while hoarsely whispering that he apologized for the inconvenience and that he truly didn't mind being here and that he didn't want to get fed on again, please, won't you heed his one request.

''Sir, I am not a vampire. There are no vampires nearby.''

Slughorn couldn't hear him or understand him. He was locked away in a deep headspace of his. Tom's brows furrowed. He whispered to him as gently as he could: ''Sir, tell me about yourself.''

''W-what?'' An actual reaction.

Tom continued. ''Tell me about yourself. What did you used to do?''

''I – I was a professor at a magical school.''

''Which one?'' Tom feigned ignorance. ''Beauxbatons?''

''No, no. _Hogwarts_. It was in Scotland.''

Tom was channelling his magic onto Slughorn, learning that such a practise helped people recover faster. Bella had taught him this during war, when he'd gotten hit with a nasty spell and fell into shock from the trauma. She'd brought him back, siphoning her own magic and strength and giving it to him. They'd lost that battle, but she'd ensured that he would be fit to fight many more. A part of him ate at his decision to leave her in Azkaban. But he hadn't revealed himself to Abraxas and if anyone deserved to know he was back it would be him and _then_ her.

Perhaps it was the familiarity of his magic that got Slughorn to look at Tom and attempt legilimency, but it was a good enough sign that his professor was getting better – so for the sake of returning a favour, Tom allowed it.

He held steadily onto Slughorn and slowly helped him walk towards the exit. ''Just a couple of more steps, sir. This Hogwarts of yours – any interesting stories from those days?''

''I taught a boy once.''

''I'm certain.''

''A boy so hungry for knowledge.''

Slughorn took a hold of the magic Tom was channelling towards him and sped up pace, asking hungrily for more and more. Tom always did have a powerful reserve of his own magic. He could handle this. If anyone deserved this it would be Slughorn.

''I am certain the boy is grateful for everything you've done.''

Slughorn cried. ''I didn't protect him from himself.''

''No,'' Tom's voice quieted, ''no you did the best you could.''

''He could have been so kind if only I had tried a little harder. If only I had fought Albus a little harder.'' The crying was back again. Tom's knees were shaking. He held onto his professor and shushed him, told him that it wasn't his fault, that the student was over it.

''It was such a long time ago, professor.''

''No, no. He was our Prometheus and we all stood by as the gods punished him.''

''The Gods.'' Tom rolled his eyes. He couldn't help it. This was all an emotional cocktail he'd not been ready to digest. Conversations with thought to be estranged professors never boded well for his emotional stability. ''The Gods can suck it, sir. I've retired the position.''

''A Retired Prometheus?'' Slughorn mulled the words on his tongue. He found it odd. ''That doesn't exist.''

''It does now.'' Tom was peeved. ''I didn't want to be vilified so I left. Told the bloody eagle or whatever bird that eats Prometheus' intestines –''

''Liver.''

''An anti drinking sentiment from the Ancient Greeks, how _fucking_ dandy.''

At least the crying had finished. Slughorn felt so small, so bare bone to his chest. Tom was going to need a drink when they reached the top part of the house. ''Sir, the bird is gone. Prometheus is retired and in Montenegro. Let's all just pretend nothing happened and get you to a healer.''

''My boy.''

Slughorn had finally recognized him. Tom turned to him and nodded. ''Hello, sir. I'm here to liberate you.''

''My dear boy.'' Slughorn wrapped his skeletal arms around Tom's neck and hugged him. Tom hugged him back, feeling awkward to do so. Yet this validated him. ''You have given this old man such a fright.'' He dripped his magic with Slughorn's still, not quite certain what will happen were he to cut it off so quickly. ''You, you're really here to save me?''

''Yes.''

''You aren't mad at me? Or hunting me?''

''Why the bloody hell?''

''I am your last tie with the horcruxes.''

''Oh for the love of – Sir, at this point in my life I'm lucky to get out of bed in the morning. I can't go on manhunts.''

Slughorn didn't have the reaction Tom was hoping for. He cried again and called this entire situation very sad.

Tom and his one father-figure were emotionally connecting.

It was wretched hell.

He hoped for God (because God had really come through during the conference) to send him a distraction of epic proportions.

* * *

  
Gellert Grindelwald broke into Lena's house and collapsed on her couch.

Slughorn was sitting in a chair, because standing was an arduous task. He had been dosed with blood replenishing potions, given nutrient potions, and a calming draught on top of it all. This all made him high as hell. Tom had missed the desired concentration.

Tom took a calming draught and drank it like a shot.

This was all a tits up situation indeed. Made Tom realize why he disliked tits in the first place.

He turned to Slughorn and saw him mime the killing curse motion with his fingers.

Tom looked back to Gellert Grindelwald.

January 27th was nearing and fucking Grindelwald up would be a good way to honour it.

He turned back to Slughorn and whispered: ''I don't think I can do it.''

Slughorn narrowed his eyes. He blinked. ''What the bloody fuck do you mean you _can't_ do it?''

''I'm trying not to kill anymore. I've caused so many terrible deaths and painful occurrences in my life. It's time to give back.''

Slughorn beckoned him closer. Tom decided to hear his professor out. He grabbed his wrist as tightly as he could with his limited bodily strength. Tom aimed his ear at Slughorn's face and waited. ''My boy, you are... hunted, yes?''

''I am in hiding.''

Slughorn fanned that away for semantics now. ''If you killed Grindelwald, all would be forgiven.''

Tom glanced back over to Gellert's passed out body. It would be so easy. What was a Franco compared to a Hitler, really? He was a civil war leader. Barely a Dark Lord. This guy had started **_World_** _War II_.

From a global standpoint...

Tom took his wand out.

Slughorn gave him silent thumbs up.

Tom could get a chance back to live his life. He could stop hiding. He could stop feeling like prey. Maybe he'd even get some therapy while he was at it? It didn't hurt to try. No, no it did. Needing help was still something he wasn't keen to admit. But he couldn't remember some parts of his past. When he tried to remember his childhood, most of it was a blank or a fuzzy feeling called anger.

He twirled his acacia wand. It was a clean start. It was a wand that hadn't any blood on it. Wispily it sang in his grasp. Urgently it told him that this wasn't what he wanted to do.

But he had to, didn’t he?

This was the only way.

Tom wondered where his horcruxes were. Seeing Slughorn made him realise that he cared about his life before. That he wanted to be revered for his expertise, that he wanted people to know he existed.

That he wanted to be forgiven?

No. **_No_** , Tom knew that he would not be forgiven. He wanted to be _pardoned_. There was a world of difference in those words.

He breathed in deeply. Aimed his wand at this haggard old man. And then panicked when the man's eyes flew open. They were an icy blue colour that tore through him with just one look.


	47. Intermission VI

The suffocation garnered by being deep inside of a forest was a feeling no one could shake easily. Not even while having four tall walls and a roof to protect from the elements. It was the hunger from the outside that penetrated through these walls and seeped inside like an unapologetic thief. It crawled from underneath the floorboards only to envelope the two wizards standing stock still, scrutinizing each other. 

Slughorn looked away first. He would concede being the weaker and less known for grandstanding in comparison to Gellert Grindelwald. His ace had been neutralized. Whilst keeping his gaze to the ground he noticed the twitching, silent spasms of Tom Riddle, a boy that had helped him even when he did not need to. Did one personal act of kindness make up for the acts of cruelty littering throughout his life? 

Gellert Grindelwald snapped his fingers to get Slughorn’s attention. He had gone to a couch to recline on. His chest fell and rose with laboured breathing. Whatever magic he’d done onto Tom had taken its toll on him. He closed his eyes and cursed colourfully in a plethora of languages. Slughorn understood some bits, being a fairly travelled man himself. (Most of that traveling had been reserved to popping from one muggle’s home to another. Until, of course, he’d been captured by the Vampire)

Carefully he massaged his eyelids and whispered, in English: ‘’Go fetch me some water and then you may run, blood bag.’’ Of course a man so immersed in the Dark Arts could recognize a blood bag quickly. Hadn’t he promised the vampires allied to his cause that he would grant them access to all of the muggles they wanted? 

Slughorn stood still. He was incapable of movement. Again, very fearfully, he glanced back over to Tom who had fallen to the ground like a ragdoll and had begun screaming his throat out. 

Gellert spelled him silent and muttered about indignant assassins and how he had lost his edge if he had not sobbed into oblivion by now. He cracked open one of his blue eyes - and what a powerful blue it was. Slughorn fidgeted at the full force of the gaze. ‘’Are you deaf?’’

Slughorn wished that he was. He was shaking. Tom Riddle was the type of man that could hold his own against a man like Gellert Grindelwald. Slughorn couldn’t hold his own against pushy Ministry workers telling him that he needed to update his teaching lessons. He had been cowed then and he would be cowed now. 

They were in Albania, for goodness sake. Slughorn didn’t want to die there. Albus had told him that he would die like a coward that he was, when he’d refused to tell his lover what Tom, a son, had done to himself in his fifth year. This Balkan was so warren and full of warriors, it did not make a good place for Slughorn to rest his bones and ashes. 

Gellert Grindelwald muttered, again, about Albanians and how strange they were. He snapped his fingers as if signalling a dog. When Slughorn looked at him Grindelwald gave him an icy smile. ‘’Good. Bravo.’’ He was testing which language Slughorn would perk up best at. 

Now, Slughorn did have the option to tell Grindelwald his true identity and solve this level of miscommunication. But that would entail letting Grindelwald know that he was Horace Slughorn, Potioneer extraordinaire... The man that had been there to comfort Albus Dumbledore after he’d broken up with Gellert Grindelwald. 

Gellert Grindelwald continued reclining on a couch in the Albanian Vampire’s home. The Albanian part was important because neither Slughorn (who was pretending to be Albanian) nor Gellert (who was  **_„Proper European“_ ** and therefore didn't deign to learn anything about the Balkan) knew a single thing about Albania. 

Tom Riddle, the man the myth the legend of avoiding his problems until they overwhelmed him – yes, well, he was still writhing on the floor fighting off the enchantment Gellert had placed on him the minute their eyes had locked. Seer magic came from sight and Gellert would use his newly healed eyes to the best of his ability. He admitted, to be fair, that he was a tad rusty in this regard and that instead of shoving this accursed assailant that was a vampire (because the red eyes had to only be a sign of vampirism as horcrux creation was such a niche branch of magic and the odds of running into such a practitioner were astronomical) into a whirlwind of pain, having to relieve the worst possible imagery possible – he had pushed him into reflecting on his actions throughout his life. 

Slughorn didn't know how to break it to Gellert Grindelwald that Tom Riddle would rather fight nightmare creatures off than to spend a single moment thinking back on his life. A big part of him wanted to tell this to Gellert Grindelwald ( **_the_ ** Gellert Grindelwald, the guy who'd started the bloody Holocaust, the man that had systematically ruined people's perception of muggles and forced magical society to have to gradually and painfully deal with the bigotry perpetuated by Grindelwald's followers). Slughorn inched towards the kitchen. Hopefully the vampire had poison lying about. 

Back in the living room, Grindelwald stood about in the vampire's home and looked at the knick knacks lined across a mantle above a fireplace. Grindelwald cast spells to see if the fireplace was connected to a floo network– it was not. That was a relief. Nobody would be able to come and surprise attack him. Gellert peered at a photograph set among the knick knacks. It was of two men posing in the manliest way they could think of. One of the men had a shotgun while the other, younger man was scowling. Gellert thought that this was the strangest father-son duo he'd seen in a long while. The photograph did not move, he noted with disdain and went further around the living room to peruse. 

''Excuse me.'' Gellert said in his best patronizing tone of voice. It was incredibly slow and loud and English (the universal language whenever you weren't sure which language to attempt to communicate with in Europe). Slughorn stepped out of the kitchen (he was trying his best not to be suspicious, but the fact that he was drenched in sweat was not doing him any favours). ''Water?'' He pointed at Slughorn: ''You?'' and then made wild gesticulations with his hands: ''Have?''

Slughorn stood silently. Petrified with fear and anxiousness. Gellert scowled. He made an X with his arms and said: ''Alcohol?''

''Alcohol?'' Slughorn would get the man drunk. He nodded. 

Gellert shook his head. ''NOT Alcohol. Diiiffeeerent drink.'' Made a motion to drink. It looked like he was drinking a shot. 

Slughorn nodded. ''Alcohol.''

Grindelwald's lips twitched. He disliked this situation. ‘’WATER, YOU STUPID  **_SHITE_ ** .’’

Slughorn gave him a thumbs up. Then he hurried back into the kitchen. While in the kitchen he was safe. 

Tom keened a potent cry. Grindelwald spelled him with a silencing charm, noticing that the previous one had been fought off. ''A feisty one, aren't you?'' He sneered.

* * *

The sun flashed hideously. Voldemort pulled down his sunglasses and hissed out a couple of insults. Abraxas had asked him to go out to the beach. Not any English beaches, mind – because those were too sad and reminded him of the orphanage. No, they'd gone to a sandy beach in Mallorca. 

It would be the first time since the start of the war that they'd allowed themselves to be alone and act like proper adults. Voldemort hoped for an apology. Abraxas hoped for their old lives back. Neither would leave Mallorca pleased. It was the universe telling them that they did not deserve happiness. 

Abraxas conjured a parasol to hide underneath. His cheeks were reddened from burns. Voldemort hoped that they were reddened so by embarrassment and remorse, but that was too much to ask for. 

He hid his red eyes behind the sunglasses and continued to hiss. Abraxas avoided talking to him until he switched over to English. He didn't have anything to say to him, did he? Then why would Abraxas bother with such a charade? As if he cared for Voldemort's opinion. As if this magnanimous prick cared for anything other than winning a war he didn't fight. Instead of humouring this horrible man, Voldemort could be in England rallying his forces, making new strategic plans with Bellatrix, devising actual ways of winning – but no – no – he catered to the whims of one Abraxas Malfoy still.  _ Fine _ . 

Voldemort buried his feet in the stark yellow sand and hissed out that he was an idiot for humouring Nobby's murderer. That he should have stayed in that swamp and let the Dementors feast upon his frail soul. It would have been a better alternative to  **_this_ ** . 

''Speak already.'' He barked out. 

Abraxas flinched at the voice. He looked away, scooting his legs underneath the parasol. His gaze strayed to the lulling sea. They'd warded this perimeter to keep muggles away, mages at bay, all in an attempt to give themselves some semblance of privacy for a conversation that was long coming. 

''I...'' Abraxas froze up. Which was a shame as the sun was scorching and one would think it would heat him up. 

Voldemort already saw himself peeling his skin away like a snake. Abraxas offered him sun cream and he declined anything from him. Not even if the sun could kill him with skin cancer would he take a single thing from Abraxas. The rage he held in his heart remained strong. It would, if this continued, turn stronger than his wits and devour his heart. Not that he had a heart. It had died with Nobby Leach.

Mandy couldn't look at him. Not that he blamed her. He had returned a lesser man to room with their Nobby's killer. How dependant he was on Abraxas, actually? This revelation caused even more unrest to settle inside the place where his heart used to be. It screamed. 

How would a horcrux made from Abraxas Malfoy's magic look like? If he made another horcrux would his heart settle? Would these feelings dissipate? The self loathing hadn't. No, in fact, a part of him felt like the more he made the horcruxes the less and less he could see what he wanted to be. The first one  _ had _ brought clarity. But the rest only addled him.

Instead of Abraxas he saw Myrtle Warren hiding underneath the parasol. She was an ugly girl. Unseemly in a way poor girls only could be. She gave him a small smile and Voldemort scowled further. 

Abraxas stopped smiling. He tried to articulate his thoughts as well as a man whose whole life revolved around numbers could: ''Tom-''

Yet again, Voldemort sneered – yet again Abraxas did not respect him enough to use his chosen name. Tom Riddle represented a time of suffering, a place of helplessness, and a dead, dead child. Voldemort rose above that. He would never again think of Tom Riddle. At least, he would never think about Tom Riddle were it not for Abraxas' constant reminding. 

Voldemort rose and bit down a scream because the sand was like walking across molten lava. He flimsily gestured to the sea and decided to leave Abraxas underneath the parasol. What a man who burned so easily had doing on a beach in summer failed to crystallize itself to him.

The sea was just warm enough for Voldemort to float on. He wondered if he stared at the sun and got blind, would he mind such an existence? If, at least, it meant that he didn't have to see Abraxas Malfoy ever again. But no, if he was an invalid Abraxas would be the one to take care of him, wouldn't he? He'd pamper him. He'd buy him things to make him comfortable. He'd get him a service dog even – he was just that kind of person. Whatever his precious Tom wanted Abraxas would make a reality. How dependent Abraxas was on the idea of Tom Riddle. 

He still said that he loved him (Tom, not him, never him – never the revolutionary, never the one that protested the status quo – not the man that had returned from his self-inflicted exile). Voldemort didn't think Abraxas loved him. No, no – they were all fooling themselves with this. 

Bellatrix had seen it. 

She'd asked him if he wanted to live with her. Then she'd backtracked and said that she expected nothing in return from him, of course – and that she would never presume her place to infer anything between them (the youth was so silly to hide the fact that sex was a good bargaining chip to have). Tom Riddle had nothing going for him except for a pretty face he'd inherited from a giant fucking prick of a man (traumatized, he'd later call him – once he'd been dosed with a love potion and suffered through a day of such a monstrous act). 

Abraxas didn't expect 'nothing' from him. He said that he did, of course. But he expected a companion, he expected someone to agree with him on the little things. He wanted someone to amuse him. And what a pretty, pretty amusement Tom Riddle was. It was good that he was a halfblood, Voldemort thought, because if he were an actual mudblood they (who, he wondered, because he saw enemies wherever he looked) would have murdered him for a ritual.

His mind was rotting, wasn't it? It was the first time he ever dared to give it a single thought.

Voldemort submerged his head underneath the saltwater and closed his eyes. The hum of the sea put pressure on him, but in this moment it was the most liberating thing he could have ever put on himself.

If only he could muster up enough strength to  _ leave _ . Perhaps that would be the only way this relationship (and what a long one it was; so long, in fact, that it left him feeling trapped and aimless were he to leave – where would he go?) could end amicably.

No, Abraxas and he could never end amicably. Not after everything. 

The pressure began to build up. 

* * *

Slughorn rummaged through the kitchen, desperately trying to find anything to use. There were elixirs about, but they were not what he was looking for. What kind of a dark creature did not have a single malicious potion in her home? This was obscene! Slughorn would have to rethink his entire view of vampires because this home looked as same as any other home, aside from the murderous basement in which he’d been held prisoner. Though, compared to plotting Grindelwald’s death – the vampires actions did seem minor in comparison.

His Adam’s apple bobbed gracelessly as he swallowed down a lump of anxiety that lodged itself in his throat. It budged down solely because he had a duty to his students. And the rest of the world. Really now, helping Gellert Grindelwald was an unforgivable act. Slughorn could feel all of his muggleborn students (nay, all of his students with common sense and dignity in tact) judging him harshly for his cowardice.

He was a potioneer, for goodness’ sake! He had conquered this fear and marched on many times before – though, he had had someone else to blame his deviant poisons on those times.

Tom Riddle cried. Gellert jeered at him cruelly and laughed.

Slughorn haphazardly opened the cabinets with shaky, shaky fingers. Had Tom Riddle not fed him potions (if only he could locate the cabinet where the vampire kept her stock) Slughorn would not be able to stand, let alone plot murderer.

His thoughts clouded as nausea signalled him that this may be above his head. Killing influential and domineering purebloods truly wasn’t something he wanted to make a habit of. For his snakes he would cross such lengths.

Most of the cabinets had bottles of alcoholic drinks (some were wrapped as if gifts that circulated from home to home without being opened), plates and ceramic cutlery, as well as a series of mugs with funny English inscriptions. One said: Best Irish Babe That Used To Be A Teacher And Is Now Happily Retired.

That confused the daylights out of Slughorn. It reminded him of something Galatea had once said. Tears welled in the corner of his eyes at the thought of his old life and friends. He missed them dearly.

Another mug that was sending mixed signals to Slughorn was one with the inscription: The Actual Best Irish Babe Because Of Killing Unseelie Queen.

It was only after wading through all of these mugs that Slughorn found a secret compartment with potions. Slughorn thanked any entity that would listen.

After locating the poisonous substance, Slughorn then looked if there was any juice to mix the darned thing in for camouflage. There was a thing called Cedevita.

Slughorn blinked.

‘’BLOOD BAG? WHAT IS TAKING SO LONG?! I shall lose patience – PATIIEEENCEEE. This piece of fucking shite underneath me is beginning to bore me with its begging.’’ Shouted then, with so much anger that Slughorn momentarily stopped mixing this drink. Did he truly look so pathetic that Gellert Grindelwald wouldn’t see through him? Slughorn hoped he did. Oh goodness, a thought entered his mind that had him nearly choking on his own tears – he probably reminded of that pathetic and very slow boy Pettigrew.

* * *

Voldemort awoke to find Abraxas leaning over him, his expression stricken with panicked fear. Before he could say a single thing he heard Abraxas crying out: ‘’Never do that, please. Whatever you think is happening I am here for you. Please, please never do that. Don’t do that to me. I...I cannot live through this  _ again _ .’’ He cried and held onto Voldemort as if they were friends and as if everything was good between them. 

Voldemort felt his lungs swim in saltwater. He could not move and disturb this disturbing sight in front of him. Abraxas was bent across from him, wailing like even the worst mourners. His fingers grasped hold of Voldemort and then his own, salt-worn hair. Voldemort noted how Abraxas willingly subjected himself to the Sun’s incredible scrutiny. His skin burned in the same way as Voldemort’s eyes did. He, too, was crying - but it was silent compared to Abraxas. Voldemort did not want Abraxas here. He did not, most of all, appreciate owing this man a life-debt and trapping himself further. Slowly he trailed his hands to his face and he cupped his own hair tightly and laughed through his wheezes. 

Abraxas begged him to talk about this. ‘’Please, please Tom. We can talk about it. Whatever it is that would make you do this - what is it? What’s made you think about something so… permanent.’’ 

Neither party wished to acknowledge the suicide attempt. Voldemort shook. It had been the most impulsive thing he had ever tried. A part of him, deeply nestled between his love for Leach and his exhaustion with the War, wanted him to end it. He wanted to return to the Dementor infested swamp and see what would happen if these creatures sucked out his soul - as he had intended doing had it not been for Walburga Black’s meddlesome stalking. She had put a stop to that. Abraxas had put a stop to this. 

No, Voldemort saw that he was trapped to dance a tune the Sacred Twenty-Eight wanted to see him dance to. Like a marionette he would be pulled where they pulled. And all for what, really? Economic safety? Power? What power did he even have on this side of the war? 

A bigger, much stronger part of Voldemort told him to wrap his hands around Abraxas’ neck and squeeze until he saw life drain out of those silver eyes for good. And then he would run. He would run as far away from the world as he possibly could, never to return to any of these so-called minions and enemies. 

He had never lived for himself. He had never allowed himself to be as he wished. Starting from the beginning of the orphanage where he did not live. During this time he survived life and thought about how good it would be to be a bloody  _ tailor _ . Factory work for someone as small as him was not a good position. Trade would be his only salvation. 

Later, during Hogwarts - he was obsessed with figuring out who his family was because he was magic. He was being polite and admirable like all of the professors wanted him to be. Bit by bit he cut pieces of himself to fit a mould necessary for him to be in character to play a role dealt to him by life. Dumbledore, Voldemort thought, saw through him. He saw through all of these facades and he saw evil. 

Let him be evil. Voldemort pushed Abraxas off of him and shakily sat up. He coughed to get the remnants of the saltwater out of his body. Mandy needed to check up on him and see if he could be discharged fully. Why had he picked drowning? He had drowned a child like this; held his head down and told him to beg and beg and beg until nothing had come out of his mouth. Amy Benson had been tortured into silence. Why had he wanted to drown himself? Voldemort closed his eyes and panted. 

Abraxas begged him: ‘’Tell me why you have done this.’’

Voldemort vowed to kill Tom Riddle and become a Lord, because that was what the Sacred Twenty-Eight could make him into. But they had not. He had victoriously led a group of aristocrats, draining their resources, draining their money, draining their lives - but it had taken a toll on him, as well. He had not come out of this unscathed. Lord Voldemort was an invention of an orphan that wanted to be someone great. Someone of his own creation, of his own mind and body and emotion. 

No, Voldemort had been outplayed by the purebloods. Lord Voldemort did not represent any of this anymore. It represented his own cage. A cage that Nobby Leach had seen through and tried to help him leave it. 

The tears began anew. Voldemort hissed, half in parseltongue until he remembered that Abraxas did not understand him. He turned quickly to the wet, rat-like, and afraid figure of cocaine addicted aristocracy. Abraxas represented what unchecked power did to someone. ‘’You want to know why I have done this, Malfoy?’’ 

Abraxas flinched. He curled into himself and whispered that he was worried for Tom. 

‘’I could not bear the sight of you any longer.’’ Voldemort stood up on shaky, uncertain feet. Yet he was the most certain in his decision when he twirled to disapparate. 

* * *

A crack of an apparition resounded not far from Slughorn and Gellert Grindelwald. The man of the hour was just about to drink the concoction when he spat his entire drink out upon seeing who had apparated.

It was a woman wearing a nun’s outfit. Slughorn truly hoped that he was just seeing things, because this woman looked like the renegade Vinda Rosier, right-hand of Grindelwald during his war. She’d been presumed dead, but there were speculations that she had escaped to South America to live out her days among muggles. It seemed that those theories weren’t as farfetched. Even a muggle-hater would mingle with them to save her hide.

‘’GELLERT!’’

‘’VINDA?!’’

_ ‘’GELLERT!’’ _

**‘’VINDA?!’’**

This went on. Once they got over their disbelief, their meeting escalated into a duel. Apparently Vinda had cut a deal with a couple of Americans to betray Grindelwald and live out her days in freedom, but it had been hushed up by the MACUSA. Slughorn looked in absolute pity at the spilt poison being absorbed by the fuzzy rug Tom Riddle was clawing himself apart on. Gently he crouched down next to his student and hushed his cries. While these people fought Slughorn closed his eyes and made peace with the fact that he would die here.

‘’My boy, you have suffered so much.’’ He whispered and held Tom’s hands away so he could not hurt himself anymore. Gellert Grindelwald had taken the boy’s wand and Slughorn knew the vampire had snapped his to show him how powerless he was. ‘’Shush, it is fine.’’ He lied. ‘’You are going to be fine.’’

* * *

Voldemort was no fool. He knew that people remembered how Abraxas and he had once interacted. They could see the deep, obvious cracks in their relationship. But the older guard knew not to mention it. Bellatrix was young. 

Bellatrix tried to be helpful. She mustered up strength to come up to him after he had finished duelling Barty Jr., his greatest and most loyal of the younger generation. Bellatrix was unrivalled, of course, but she did not look at him how Barty did: with pure, unadulterated fear. 

Mostly because he cracked a joke here or there with Bellatrix and she humoured him by laughing. To hear a young woman laugh with him did bolster his spirits. It was the heat of summer and Voldemort was drenched in sweat. He was losing his edge. The hexes and curses the aurors hit him with were taking out of him.

This civil war did not have an end in sight. Dumbledore was getting money from abroad. He was cashing in favours from the rest of the world for duelling Grindelwald. Voldemort’s men and women were emptying their seemingly bottomless coffers to fund the war. Abraxas gave the most, this was true - but Voldemort would not pretend he did this because of anything other than guilt. 

‘’You look like you could use a drink.’’ Bellatrix teased. Voldemort was above teasing at this moment. He just asked her if she had any water to give him. 

‘’I do not care for your hidden flasks, Bella.’’ 

‘’No,’’ she fanned away and took out a bottle of water from her pocket, ‘’I have water.’’ She tossed it to him. ‘’Here you go.’’ 

Voldemort was too trusting, too thirsty to notice with what interest Bellatrix watched him drink the liquid. 

Only after Voldemort drank did he realise what had happened. The very first thing he did, whether willingly or not, was to find Abraxas. ‘’My Abbie.’’ His eyes were shot wide with want and desire. 

Bellatrix clasped her hands together and thought herself a helpful sort. 

Voldemort would never forgive her this betrayal. 

* * *

‘’Gellert, I had no other choice!’’ Vinda shouted, skillfully deflecting spells. 

‘’Liar! You always have a choice and you chose to save yourself. While I duelled Albus you leaked information and gave away my secrets. You knew I would lose.’’

‘’For a Seer, you had no foresight when it came to him. I would not go down because of your weakness for that man.’’ Vinda sent a series of curses his way. She twisted out of the way like a ballerina when Gellert crashed killing curses into trees, having tried to aim at her. This wand was not his friend – it had belonged to a woman who did not fancy magic, nor did she fancy Dark Lords.

‘’You are a traitor! Why are you here now? Have you come to gloat that you lived in freedom? Have you come to try and bring me back to the authorities?’’

‘’No, I came to make amends! I will help you to Russia and then I clean my hands of you. It is what I owe you.’’

‘’Russia?’’ Gellert questioned, ‘’Do you know what I did to those people?’’

‘’I do remember you spending an obscene amount of our funding on –‘’

Gellert remembered where she was going with this. He stopped her. ‘’That is enough. I remember.’’

‘’Trust me, Russia is not the Soviet Union anymore. You will be able to slip by and go to Korea.’’

‘’There are two now?’’

‘’Oh yeah, yeah – you’ll want the North one.’’

Gellert narrowed his eyes. ‘’Swear an unbreakable vow with me if you are truly here to help me. How did you even find me?’’

Vinda outstretched her hand to him. ‘’What? Like it is hard finding you when I know you so well?’’

‘’Ha.’’ Gellert grabbed hold of her hand and pulled them closer. He scrutinized Vinda and whispered: ‘’You are a strange woman to come to my aid.’’

‘’Better to come to your aid when you are at your lowest than to fall as your victim when you are stronger. And you will be stronger. I know you are resilient.’’ Vinda explained.

‘’I do not like turncloaks, Vinda.’’ Gellert dared to stall. Magic slowly seeped from them and intertwined where their hands touched. ‘’You make me question your loyalty which I thought I had.’’

Vinda cracked a rueful smile. ‘’To be honest with you, Gellert, had you not cocked it up so badly with the whole American bit I would have been more loyal.’’

‘’I was playing angles!’’ Indignantly.

‘’Those were some shitty angles then!’’ Unapologetically.

‘’Curse you, Vinda!’’ Gellert pulled away first when the bond finalized. ‘’If you had so many ideas about what to do then why did you never try to stop me?’’

‘’I thought you knew what you were doing!’’ Vinda exclaimed. She let loose a turret of thoughts and criticism she’d been saving for over half a century. ‘’But apparently you had fuck all clue! All we got out of America was proper American accents and nothing else. Oh mais oui, how could I forget! A kid that died and a snake woman that nearly killed me!’’

‘’Yes, that snake woman truly was something else. I hope we never run into her again.’’

A crack not far away from their duel resounded. Gellert and Vinda turned towards it.

The Blood Bag who Gellert had thought loyal to him for liberating him from his vampire captor shouted, atop his lungs: ‘’GALATEA!’’

‘’HORACE?!’’ Galatea screamed in horror.

‘’VINDA?’’ A vampire shouted.

‘’ZEF?’’ Vinda shouted. Right she had been tasked with dealing with the eastern front while Gellert focused his attention to the west.

‘’Ah no, no I go by  _ Lena _ now.’’ Lena began telling her long winded story of self-discovery. Gellert cut this short before they could go into how Lena had gone through puberty addled with upholding her family’s name as a Bernesha and how it was only after World War II, a little after her entire family died in a fiendish fire that she realised that now with having no family name to uphold or protect she could explore other venues of identity.

‘’ENOUGH!’’

‘’YOU AGAIN?’’ A snake woman that neither Gellert nor Vinda had been prepared for seeing shouted. ‘’Haven’t I fought you once already? Come for more arse-kicking?’’

‘’IT IS THE SNAKE WOMAN!’’ Vinda grabbed a hold of Gellert’s arm and held onto it for comfort. He had no comfort to give. 

‘’NAGINI!’’ Nagini hissed. ‘’I have a name.’’ Then she bared her fangs at them and added: ‘’What have you done here?’’ Her robes were drenched with blood. When Gellert gave it more thought so were the other women’s clothes. They looked scraped up and recently out of battle.

‘’Oh no Tom’s hurt!’’ A fourth woman shouted and hurried for Tom. Gellert didn’t think Tom was much of an Albanian name, to be quite honest.

‘’Beatrice, tend to him and Horace.’’ Galatea instructed. ‘’Lena, Nagini, and me will fight these rapscallions.’’

‘’I.’’ Vinda and Gellert corrected. They’d had to painstakingly learn English and they relished in correcting a heated and spontaneous native speaker. ‘’Lena, Nagini and  _ I. _ ’’

Just for that level of pretentiousness Galatea vowed to fuck them up badly. ‘’Listen here you little  **_cunt_ ** my patience has worn while trying to defeat a mage responsible for hurting my friend. I have not slept in a good 50 hours. What you see here is running on caffeine and spite. I do not have the time for whipper snappers like yourselves.’’

‘’Whipper snapper?’’ Vinda questioned. Gellert translated. ‘’I think it means little shit, but said more politely.’’ Vinda nodded sagely.

Nagini sent the first spell wandlessly. It hit Vinda in the chest and she staggered backwards, unable to breathe until Gellert did the counter-curse. He blocked when Galatea sent a cutting spell through the air. But he couldn’t quite block when Lena charged him with an axe. Vinda slammed into the vampire full force to the side, toppling her down.

Beatrice took her wand out and as the parties fought, she went forward to lift the enchantment off of Tom. ‘’Come now, a leanbh. I have you.’’

Slughorn kept repeating that he truly did not want to die in Albania.

Beatrice snorted. ‘’Galatea is fighting.’’ This was all explanation necessary for Slughorn to finally calm. Galatea Merrythougth was a force that was much older than Gellert Grindelwald. It really was time for someone to put this arrogant prick in his place. If anyone was capable of doing that it would be Galatea, the most terrifying person to ever be Head of House for Hufflepuff.

Tom whimpered. The state of his boy brought Slughorn out of his train of thought. ‘’Worry not, my boy. Just endure a while longer.’’

* * *

Being underneath the influence of Amortentia was quite possibly the worst thing that had ever happened to Voldemort. He pulled Abraxas into a kiss that turned his tongue to ash, but he couldn’t make it stop. Lovingly (and he did not want to feel this putrid emotion, this burden he held onto his back anymore) he whispered that he wanted to  _ fuck _ Abraxas. It startled the man, really. Voldemort, for the first time, realised that Abraxas knew him in his core. 

‘’Tom?’’ He whispered, wanting to believe that the words Voldemort was speaking were true far more than he would allow his brain to clear and realise that this was not Voldemort, that this was not the man Abraxas claimed he loved. This was no more a shadow. ‘’Are you certain?’’

Voldemort replied with another, harsher kiss. He hissed in parseltongue and then in English all of the things he would let Abraxas do to him. They were depraved. He was depraved. On the inside, however, trapped in his own disorderly brain Voldemort shouted for Abraxas to realise that this was not him; that this was never him. 

Abraxas was just too eager to be forgiven to give it another thought. He followed suit with every kiss and filthy promise, whispering that he was so happy finally to move on from their fighting. 

He thought of Tom Riddle (not the one Abraxas loved, but an older one – another one whose crime was only taking a glass of water from a villager woman) and he could only imagine what a horror it was to spend multiple months under the thrall of amortentia. This day was hell. This day was everything Mrs. Cole had ever promised would happen to him when he died. Perhaps he had died on that beach? Perhaps the horcruxes had not helped?

What if every day would be like this? Voldemort stripped of his autonomy over his own body, unable to do anything that he wanted with it; stripped of his own words, incapable of saying what he screamed in earnest on the inside; and pushed into a vulnerability he had never dared allow himself – whatever Abraxas wanted of him would be done.

Had Abraxas told Bellatrix to do this? Voldemort wondered louder, in a more panicked and disgusted manner with each trailing kiss Abraxas lay on his bare, scarred skin. 

Would he forever be cursed by this name: Tom Marvolo Riddle? Now he was made to suffer through the same actions that led to his own birth. 

In a twisted, morbid fashion Voldemort thought that, at least, if he were to be raped by anyone – it would be best if it was someone as kind as Abraxas. 

* * *

Things escalated even further when Lena disapparated. Gellert thought it was a show of cowardice and that it would finally be equal battle of two versus two.

But no, Lena apparated back with a shotgun. Like from the photograph on the mantle, Gellert oddly connected.

Vinda cursed loudly. ‘’Putain de merde.’’ She barely dodged when Lena fired. 

* * *

Voldemort retched across the carpets the first moment his mind and body were returned to him. Abraxas knew, much before Voldemort said a single thing – that there was something grave that had transpired. 

It was most unfortunate that they were both nude and all the more susceptible to bouts of vulnerability. Not that Abraxas needed the post coital high to open up his emotions; he was rather efficient in that regard. 

‘’W-what’s wrong?’’

In between the dry heaves, Voldemort managed to rasp out the word: ‘’Amortentia.’’

‘’I – I would –  **_Tom_ ** !’’ Abraxas was a good actor, thought Voldemort. He sounded traumatized, far more than Voldemort had been throughout the ordeal. It had worn off in the middle of their heated entanglement. 

Voldemort flushed the toilet and retched more afterwards. He could understand, for the first time, how Tom Riddle had felt. Abraxas called him Tom. He was forever going to be dealing with his parents’ demons. In the privacy of Abraxas’ master bedroom, more specifically, his ensuite toilet - Voldemort found that he was incapable of holding it in anymore. He bawled. It was the strangest sound he had ever made. Not even while Mrs. Cole beat him with a cane as a young boy would he have dared make the sounds he was making here. Not even when Nobby Leach had died did Voldemort think to cry like this sad, terrified man that he was. 

Abraxas did not enter to comfort him. He understood that he was afraid. He understood that Voldemort would rather die than have anything to do with Abraxas after this. So, he gathered his clothes, dressed, and left him for the following week in that room. When anyone asked where Voldemort was, Abraxas covered for him with this or that. 

The thing that got Voldemort out of that room was thirst (conjured water was undrinkable, but Voldemort would rather subject himself to such horror than drink water whose source he did not know), but it was, also, the sound of a woman screaming in raw, terrible pain that got him to move. 

For a moment, because he did not know this woman could make such a sound, he thought that it was Antoinette who was being attacked. Through delirium Voldemort surged across the corridors in Malfoy Manor, until he reached a foyer where he saw Bellatrix keening a cry and apologizing. She looked a mess. Mucus mixed with her tears and painted a vomit-inducing sight. Blood soaked through her clothes. 

Voldemort turned towards the caster and saw Antoinette. He had heard her voice, then. She was screaming at Bellatrix. Slowly he lowered his wand and whispered, barely capable of remembering how speech sounded after disuse. ‘’What are you doing, Antoinette?’’

Antoinette turned to him. She looked at him in horror and flung herself into his arms, holding him close and telling him how she would not let him go on undefended. ‘’I will kill her for you, mon frere!’’

Voldemort looked over to Bellatrix. She was close to Death’s door. Her eyes met with his and she begged. Hadn’t Voldemort dreamed of seeing a member of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black beg him, a lowly halfblood? Yes, he had. Walburga looked enough like Bellatrix for Voldemort to live through his innermost fantasies. He licked his lips and prepared to tell Antoinette to finish the job. 

Bellatrix whispered, half through a sob and half through a plea: ‘’I wanted to help you and Lord Malfoy, my lord! Please - I wouldn’t have done this if I didn’t think it would help you. I am your right hand! I am your General! Please, you need me to win the war.’’

As sick as it was to realise the truth in those words, it was further sicker for Voldemort to realise that he could not afford to have Bellatrix die. No, she was the only competent soldier by his side. Even with her immense skill and fortitude, they were struggling. Voldemort did not want to imagine a way of battle without her. 

‘’Antoinette, clean her up. Let her go.’’

Antoinette did not move to do as asked. 

‘’Ma soeur, I am tired.’’ He confided. She could hear it. It was why she went and did as asked.

When Bellatrix looked at him, standing just as shakily as he held himself, Voldemort knew that she would never fear him. One day, even - if he wasn’t careful - she might overtake him. 

‘’Never do that again.’’ He said. 

‘’Punish me.’’ Bellatrix demanded. ‘’Have your vengeance for my actions, my lord. I’ll take it.’’ 

Voldemort spoke to her honestly: ‘’Nothing I could do to you would come close to the betrayal you dealt me.’’ 

It shut her up. She wheezed as she breathed because Antoinette must have burst one of her lungs with a curse. With bloodied hands she took his shaky and cold (his hands were always so cold) one and kissed it. 

Voldemort wanted to laugh, again. But his own fear strangled him and he didn’t dare.  ****

* * *

Gellert Grindelwald realised the full extent of what mingling in the Balkan entailed when he remembered that every country had sent its small force to search him out and take him back to Nurmengard (or kill him, whichever proved easier).

If Vinda had been able to track him down due to knowing his paths and contingency planning – then so could other people who reached a similar conclusion by analysing his previous strategic know-how. It helped, he imagined, that by duelling and exuding so much of his magic his very infamous and highly-remembered magical signature was everywhere and could be sniffed out by a particularly good mage.

The Balkan countries, as far as Gellert remembered, did not think well of him.

A crack followed by an immediate gunshot alerted all of the parties that more people had found out about Gellert Grindelwald’s whereabouts.

As strange as it was to say Grindelwald didn’t note the new arrivals’ weaponry, nor their wicked glee at seeing him outnumbered and so close to defeat – what he noted first was the red five pointed star on their hats.

‘’Ilinka,’’ her companion with short grey hair whispered, ‘’ajmo da mu jebemo sve po spisku.’’

Ilinka nodded. ‘’No što! Nijesam došla turistički u Albaniju, Krsto.’’ She summoned her magic into her fingertips and crafted wards while Krsto took aim of Grindelwald’s shield and shot. He didn’t miss.

Lena, Galatea, Beatrice, Slughorn, and Nagini didn’t have to think much about whose side their newest parties were when Krsto jeered at Lena as if they were age old friends. ‘’Aaa, if it isn’t the coward and traitor! My family has died and yet, of course, I continued upholding my vows like a proper Virdžina. ’’

‘’Coward? My vows have ended, Krsto! My family is dead and the name dies with them.’’ Lena joined up to fight alongside Krsto. ‘’And besides, I am still wearing the last name and I have no intention of marrying – so, in a WAY –‘’

This intense discussion about the logistics of honour and sacrifice between an Albanian Bernesha and a Montenegrin Virdžina got cut off by a very peeved and disoriented Gellert Grindelwald, who in a not so clear and level headed manner decided to shout: ‘’I cannot understand why you are all so desperate for the reward the MUE has placed on my head! I will pay you tripe that amount if you leave me be. My coffers are still full, but I must get to them.’’

Vinda kept silent that Grindelwald’s coffers had been emptied a long time ago and that she, herself, had played a big part in that endeavour. Even the ones Grindelwald thought were still full and secret were the opposite. She grimaced and inched away from him, breaking formation to attempt and have her way against Nagini. 

Galatea didn’t give Grindelwald room to spread his wings and speak more. She cut him off fiercely: ‘’We are not doing this because money interests us.’’ 

Nagini lunged for Vinda and sunk her fangs into her throat, mid transformation. Vinda’s screams alerted Grindelwald that the end of him could be here, in a begotten Albanian forest. 

‘’We are doing this because it is the right thing to do.’’ Galatea continued. She swished her wand through the air and sent a fatal blow towards Grindelwald. He attempted to disapparate, but mid spun Krsto shot him. 

* * *

Voldemort did not hate Bellatrix. Every waking moment of his being told him to hate her. Every particle that made him up hissed at him to take her in front of all of his Marked Death Eaters and put her in her place. 

But that would entail telling people what had been done to him. And that was not something Lord Voldemort would ever dare allow himself. No, he would swallow down his malicious intent towards Bellatirx all in order to continue this war. 

Still, when Abraxas looked at him it was done with such pity; it disgusted him. He, himself, was disgusting. Abraxas kept apologizing, but Voldemort wanted to forget about this. Thinking about it sent bile from his throat to his mouth, lodging there and holding his words hostage. 

Abraxas wanted them to talk. Voldemort told him that he did not have time for chatter. He was in a war, unlike Abraxas. Who was off in the world  _ frolicking _ . 

‘’Don’t try to kill yourself again.’’ Abraxas did not demand many things from him. Especially not after the war had begun. This spoke of how much it had broken him to see Voldemort in such a state. Voldemort wished to tell him to mind his own business. Yet. Oh  _ yet _ . 

‘’I assure you, it was not a decision I am proud of.’’ Nor was it much of a decision, really. It had just happened. He couldn’t explain why he explained himself. Maybe he wanted to dispel any thoughts that Voldemort was unstable. The last thing he needed was to get locked up in an asylum.

Voldemort flinched when he remembered the way Mrs. Cole had made money off of him and allowed doctors to poke and prod at him. He wore billowy robes because the leather straps tying his wrists onto the cold, metal table sent his mind into overdrive and his heart into a panic. When Moody had tied him up with conjured ropes, Voldemort’s magic had driven everyone away in an explosion that he passed off as intentional - when in fact it had been with a mind of its own.

Abraxas nodded. ‘’I could not handle that. Seeing the man you love die in your hands. It is…never again.’’ Voldemort thought of Abraxas’ father, Abraxas thought of another. Not that it mattered, truly. Voldemort told himself he hated Abraxas. ‘’Promise me you will not kill yourself.’’

‘’Not intentionally.’’

Voldemort needed to cut another piece of himself. This existence had become too tiring. He hoped that the next time he cut his soul apart it would leave him with just enough soul that he did not self loathe. 

It was after the Locket that clarity came. He spotted Regulus Black, his newest and youngest Death Eater. Bellatrix loved him with all of her soul. Yes. He had finally found what would hurt Bellatrix like her betrayal had hurt him. 

* * *

The situation had grown dire. Grindelwald cradled the fallen, bleeding body of Vinda close to his chest. She gurgled bits and pieces and he used his magic to heal her. ‘’Tell me you told more people to come when you left to find me.’’ It would not be out of place for her to have done this. It would, in fact, been very preferable. 

Vinda nodded. Her eyes widened as she welcomed him into her mind. Gellert dipped in fast, well aware that the shield he forced into the world would keep these barbarian fighters off of him for only a quick while. 

‘’Russia.’’ He sighed and accepted his fate. ‘’Fine. I will break their magic with my seer powers. They may blind me again, temporarily. I do have a Phoenix. He does come and go as he likes.’’

Vinda nodded faintly. This disinterested her. 

‘’Then while they are scrambling to right themselves you will take me to this russian safe house. Is it one of ours or one of theirs that converted?’’

Vinda narrowed her eyes as if to tell him that beggars really couldn’t be choosers. Grindelwald sighed. He pinched the bridge of his nose. Next he closed his eyes and concentrated on his eyes. When he opened them he deployed his magic at all of his enemies. It was risky, what he was going through. But he truly could not see any other way out of this mess. 

Vinda still held her throat as if there was a gash where Nagini had bitten through skin and muscle. With her other hand she held onto Grindelwald and waited until all of his enemies fell to his magic. 

With the raspy, injured voice Vinda managed to praise: ‘’Mon commandant suprême.’’

* * *

Regulus Black had not yet become a proper Death Eater. He was not Marked. In every other sense of the word he was. Bellatrix told him that he needed to prove himself in order to become a fully fledged one. And Regulus, a child that he was, thought that this was a great insult to his person. He swore in front of everyone that he was ready for whatever their Lord wanted of him. 

He could never have expected that Voldemort would ask him to hurt his own flesh and blood. 

Bellatrix told him that he had to use an unforgivable curse in order to prove himself. Voldemort spotted the cousins practicing. She poured all of her time to teach him. He made sure to listen, and that made him the perfect pupil. Especially with how much they joked between each other. How, a long time ago, he had joked with her. 

It was the most natural thing to tell Regulus that he would be tested in the evening. He spent the rest of the day excitedly awaiting and dreading the moment of reckoning. 

It was the most natural thing to tell Bellatrix that she needed to bring Regulus to Voldemort’s study in the evening for his test. She was so pleased and proud, like a sister or a mother rather than a cousin. 

Voldemort did not waste time. The quicker he got through this, the quicker he could go about planning their next strategy with Thoros Nott and Zephyr Sr. (Junior was an absolute waste of space, in his humble opinion). ‘’Regulus, crucio Bellatrix.’’

Bellatrix knew. She knew before Regulus uttered a single word in protest - what this was actually about. He had finally found a way to hurt her. The mere, simple act of the torture curse was not what would hurt Bellatrix (it would hurt as a fucking bitch, yes - but it would not break her steel mind). It would be the fact that her baby cousin Regulus was doing it. Someone she had moulded and helped and taught and loved. That would break her. 

‘’Bellatrix,’’ he sent a warning through the Mark, ‘’do not flee. Let it happen.’’

Bellatrix clasped her hands into tight fists and nodded. 

Regulus couldn’t do it. Not for a lack of trying, too. She had urged him to do it and he was going to do it because he worried what would happen if he didn’t. Smart boy. Too smart, later it would be known. For now, Voldemort needed to guide Regulus into attacking Bellatrix. He whispered to him that he did not have to think about Bellatrix when he did it. ‘’Of course you do not mean to attack your cousin. You love each other. You’re family.’’ He patronized. ‘’Think of someone else. Maybe your other family. The one you don’t like. The one that  **_left_ ** you all alone with all of your cousins and your mother of a banshee and your pushover father. He’s out there riding motorcycles and you’re here right now about to crucio your flesh and blood. Prove to me.’’ He hissed. ‘’Prove that I can trust you, Regulus. Prove that you deserve to be Marked.’’

Bellatrix’s screams filled the study like the most mellifluous symphony. Her head lolled back and her body conorted with immense, unforgivable pain. The eyes rolled to the back of her head and she clenched her teeth in a grit.

When Regulus’ spell petered out (and it was quick, because he was young and fairly well adjusted mentally) Bellatrix needed to be pulled up from her pool of vomit and drool. He delegated this task to Regulus. 

‘’Regulus, before I mark you, just one more thing.’’ He sounded apologetic. He was not. 

Regulus did not buy it, either. His eyes were voids, abysses like they were for the rest of his family. They were mental artists. ‘’Yes, my lord?’’ 

‘’Obliviate your cousin. This night did not happen for her.’’ 

‘’Pardon?’’ Regulus seethed. He held onto the twitching form of his cousin and glared. ‘’Why can’t you do it?’’

‘’Only a Black can obliviate a Black properly. I am not an idiot.’’ Voldemort reprimanded. He let out some of his magic and it travelled to Regulus, wrapping around his neck and telling him that if he did not comply he would not survive this evening. 

Regulus was young. He was easily cowed. 

Bellatrix was told she sustained her injury in battle. It was better this way. Voldemort could not imagine what kind of paranoid life he would have to lead if he suspected Bellatrix of wanting to kill him. He needed her to be loyal to him. When he marked Regulus he made it so the boy would be incapable of speaking about this to anyone. 

When all of this was said and done, Voldemort did not hate Bellatrix. Nor did he have her hatred to worry about. What he  _ did  _ have to worry about was Regulus Black’s seething loathing for him and for the thing Voldemort had made him do. But, Voldemort would not pay much attention to this. He had bigger battles to wage. 

* * *

When Grindelwald fled the enchantment was lifted. Tom Riddle opened his eyes and saw Slughorn, Beatrice, Nagini, Merrythought, Ilinka, Lena and another man watching him. They looked like a battle worn mess. 

‘’My dear boy,’’ Slughorn hugged him. In his embrace, Tom Riddle whimpered. He screwed his eyes shut and whispered that he would never be forgiven. Painfully he held onto the back of Slughorn’s robe and cried into his shoulder like a child clinging onto a father which he had never had. A figure of support which he had never dared have. ‘’Oh Tom, Tom, my boy - it’s fine. You’ll be fine.’’

Galatea fell beside him. She whispered that she hoped he would forgive her. ‘’If I had any idea Grindelwald would come and curse you like this, I would have brought you along with us.’’ 

Tom laughed among his tears. He could not care less about Gellert Grindelwald. Not when he had done so many unforgivable things. ‘’Abraxas.’’ The name slipped past chapped, bitten-raw lips. ‘’I was so full of resentment and hostility. He deserved a great deal.’’ a pause as he struggled to take in a breath, ‘’but he did not deserve the things I put him through. Not after how many times he had tried to make amends. Oh sir,’’ Tom spoke to the man that both he and Abraxas thought of as a father, ‘’sir, I am a despicable man.’’

‘’You are,’’ Slughorn did not sugar coat it. He held him just as tightly as before. This admission did not change that Slughorn cared for Tom Riddle. ‘’But you are, also, trying to be better.’’

Beatrice ushered everyone else to give the three of them some privacy. Ilinka and Krsto (he’d heard Lena shouting the name) said that they would be returning to Montenegro without a bounty. Ilinka shouted at Tom and told him that he could return, Zorka had stopped being angry. She worried for him, still. ‘’You are her pet project.’’ Ilinka rolled her eyes and spoke in Montenegrin to him. 

He waved his arm to signal that he understood, but he could not pull himself together to speak any language other than the one he was raised into. 

‘’You can be better. I know that, lad.’’ Galatea clasped her hand into a fist. ‘’We will support you. I know that with my help you-’’

Beatrice butted in. ‘’Arrogant much, Galatea?’’

‘’My wean needs me!’’

‘’Wean?’’ Beatrice shouted. ‘’The man’s in his  _ seventies _ !’’

Lena nodded to this. She had stopped debating Krsto about duty and honour for a moment to tell her son how little he had been dutiful or honourable to the world. ‘’I know this is Balkan and all male children are like gold, but you think coddling him just a tad too much is not good?’’ Lena didn’t wait for anyone to say anything. ‘’It is BAD. Let him live with his consequences. Look at him, incapable of following simple instruction: GET RID OF BLOOD BAG - BLOOD BAG IS RIGHT THERE HOLDING HIM LIKE INFANT!’’

‘’Your son is shit.’’ Krsto said. Lena hissed back that she was aware of this, thank you. ‘’Better than your chil - ah yes - wait - you only have piece of shit nieces that married the enemy.’’

‘’I can’t understand why my Milena would ever marry a capitalist pig.’’

Ilinka placed a hand across her chest and bemoaned the death of Josip Broz Tito. 

Lena thought this entire spectacle an utter waste of time. ‘’You don’t see me mourning Great Albania!’’

Ilinka and Krsto both burst into laughter at this. ‘’Our country actually existed!’’

Lena said that she truly hated them. ‘’Piss off, Krsto, and go dream about having a dick.’’ 

‘’That was uncalled for you vampiric parasite!’’

Before things could get really heated and Kosovo got tossed around, Ilinka managed to diffuse the situation by pulling Krsto away and disapparating. 

Nagini was on the floor. Her mouth was smeared with blood and flesh. Lena lay down next to her. They watched the stars through the trees in silence. 

Beatrice, Slughorn, and Galatea meanwhile were quite taken with the fact that Tom needed help. Fast. 

‘’I am going back to England.’’ Slughorn said. ‘’I must see this mess with my own two eyes. Dumbledore is rumoured to be working with Grindelwald you say -’’ Galatea nodded, it was what the papers said, ‘’but Grindelwald claims he has escaped as Dumbledore’s dying wish. It is most confusing. I will go there and get to the bottom of this.’’ He glanced over to Lena and cold sweat drenched him. ‘’I must flee before I am taken and used by vampires again.’’

Galatea was apologetic. ‘’That should not have happened to you. I am sorry.’’

‘’You trespassed.’’ Beatrice had killed a Royal Fairy, she had learned to live by their rules. ‘’What happened to you was a mercy compared to what could have happened to you had you trespassed on fairy grounds.’’ 

Galatea apologized for Beatrice’s words when Slughorn twitched in fear. ‘’Hush now, Beatrice, can’t you see how you’ve startled the poor man to death.’’

‘’Good. May this teach him.’’ Beatrice raised her head up high. She patted Tom on the shoulder and taught him: ‘’No apology will make this right. The most I can offer you is to learn how to accept that you’ve done wrong and go about your life as well and as kindly as you can.’’

‘’Yes,’’ Tom murmured, ‘’I am not blind enough to expect higher aspirations.’’ 

Nagini pointed to the sky and asked if that was one of the Black constellations. ‘’I’ve been listening to him nag about that family for decades.’’ 

Lena laughed so hard she coughed a blood clot out.

Tom, while this was going on, trailed through the forest. He leaned on a tree once exhaustion caught up with him. When he closed his eyes he focused on the sound of the forest itself. It thrummed with magic through him. Ancestors of mages listened to the trees and gathered knowledge from the universe, inferring them to be the fair folk when it was just their own awareness of being and their own magic. Their own soul. 

Tom’s soul hissed and for the first time in seventy-two years, he allowed himself to listen to it. 


	48. DAWNing realisation

Tom Riddle climbed up the twisting goat roads. He did not, for anyone curious, see any goats. What he did see was an abundance of trees. No snakes. They had burrowed to the ground because it was cold. There was no snow in Kotor, safe for the most extraordinary moments. What little snow had fallen (sauntered from the higher mountains, more like) had dissolved into wetness and ice.

He wore a thick winter robe and boots. Decidedly, Tom accepted his fate and went to see Zorka and the burned down cabin. It was the least he could do for her. She had given him this life. Ilinka said that the only reason why Zorka cared for him so much was because she had been vulnerable when they’d met. On one occasion Marko had translated for her and told him off about giving Zorka any false ideas. She was mourning her son and her husband. The Balkans were quite keen on seeing death even when there was none to mourn for. Zorka’s husband, Petar, was still alive and residing in Dobrota. It was losing her son that had broken her. Having him to guide back to life had helped her.

Or addled her. Depending on whose perspective anyone asked. Ilinka said that Zorka saw him as a son that had risen from the tall grass like a serpent (hadn’t he possessed that nasty poskok the first time he’d met Zorka?). Bringing him back from his state of unbeing, crafting him a body with old slavic magic had all reminisced a mother sacrificing her time and her strength in order to bring him back.

Tom did not know how to feel about that comparison. He had found it needlessly macabre and perverted to see a woman three times younger than him as a mother. She was a companion, but with this clarity he could understand that perspective. It frightened him to think that anyone could become dependent on him. It frightened him even more that he could become dependent on another person how he had on Abraxas Malfoy.

Zorka stood near the remains of the cabin. It had not been rebuilt. She wore a big coat that dwarfed her. He could not read her expression.

He crunched across the dirt path towards her and once they were aligned shoulder to shoulder they stood in silence. Both gazed upon the crashed bits and pieces of the cabin. The place Tom had lived for the past couple of years.

’’If I rebuild it,’’ Zorka began speaking and Tom couldn’t help but listen to her, ’’I’ll be trapped forever thinking about him. I would bring him here every other weekend and watch him explore. Follow tracks. Pick herbs. Go up these twisty small roads.’’ Her voice broke.

’’Zorka.’’ Tom reached towards her. He still had no idea what to say, but he hoped Zorka would see through his poor attempts and understand that he cared. She shook her head and pushed him away. If it was distance that she needed, Tom would give it to her. He crossed his arms and when he breathed out he could see his own breath.

’’I’ve done wrong by both of them. Everyone has told me to move on, and I thought I was doing just that by taking care of you all of those years ago. Helping you learn our language, letting you relearn how to walk in this new body you have, guiding you with magic and my sheer willpower. Only now that I see this cabin burnt and destroyed do I understand that I am not a mother. It has taken me years to get to this point, to comprehend this loss. You have only slowed this down. My actions and thoughts towards you have warped me, Monty.’’ She let out a humourless laugh. Tom clenched his hands into fists as he watched her move towards the cabin. Anxiously he followed, uncertain what was to come next.

Zorka knelt down between the debris and levitated a half destroyed plank. It set on fire and Zorka watched keenly as the wood burned away to ash. Then she moved to the other pieces and did the same to them, as well. She did not rest until nothing remained at this place that reminded her of that cabin. ’’I’ll sell the land to Marko. Arsenije is the one that really wants it, but I honestly don’t want to give it to him.’’

Tom nodded. He did not have anything to add. Zorka hadn’t used fiendfyre because she did not trust herself not to burn down the forest where the cabin was located. But nonetheless it had been methodical and divine to see her wield her magic wandlessly. He asked her what she wanted to do now. ’’You’ve asked me to return.’’

’’I have some of your things in my apartment. A little box I’ve kept, really, of mementos.’’

He scowled. ’’Dare I ask?’’

’’It is a diary where I wrote down your progress. I am no mind healer, but I am a mind reader. I know the exact date when you decided to be called Montgomery Goldsmith. It was weeks before you realised your name was Tom Riddle.’’

’’I could not remember my own name?’’

’’It was traumatic for you to switch bodies like that. I fear what you could have become had you been taken back to war until you settled yourself down. Not even now is your mind fully settled in that body. I hid most of what you told me up until you could remember yourself. Those years are... unkind.’’

’’Did I hurt you in any manner?’’

Zorka laughed. Tom waited, blinking at times. She calmed down and sobered up: ’’Wait, you’re seriously asking? No, of course you did not. You couldn’t hurt a fly. In fact, I remember that flies bullied you for a bit. You were so atrophied that you couldn’t even swat at them.’’

The mere image of that discomforted him. Tom Riddle did not remember any of this. He did not remember much of the orphanage, either. No matter how much he may have wanted to remember those days vividly, if only to know that he had survived such hideous torture.

Zorka breathed in deeply. She stretched as she breathed out. It was a way, she had told him, to keep her magic alive and pumping well. Without a sound body no magic could pass freely. ’’I will ask Marko to find you someplace else to live. I tried to bury my feelings and grief by building you anew, but I was only deceiving myself.’’ She sighed and took a hold of Tom’s hand in hers. ’’I am sorry.’’

’’I do not understand.’’ Tom said. ’’You saved my life, Zorka. There is nothing to apologize for. I always knew that this was not going to be permanent.’’ He gestured to them both. ’’You have done for me far more than I ever could have expected.’’

’’Pih, kakav si sentiš postao.’’ She resorted to her native language. Tears prickled at the corner of her eyes and she wiped at them quickly. ’’You’re really something else.’’

’’Of course.’’ Tom huffed his chest out and placed a hand across his heart. ’’This is what happens to old men like myself, Zorka: we become sentimental fools.’’

She gave him a smile. Her teeth were yellowed by smoking. It was kind.

He took her hand in his and swung it, absentmindedly, as he returned his gaze to the place where the cabin once stood. Her hands were colder than his and what an oddity that was! It was as if he was alive, for the first time since 1942. Not undead, nor resurrected. But simply alive. ’’You have been my friend for such a long time. Thank you for this.’’

Zorka shook her head and slipped her hand out of his. She lunged to hug him, instead. He allowed her, and he hadn’t even flinched when she did this. It showed how used to her he had become.

‘’You can wait until Hermione returns here. I won’t disappoint her by cutting her apprenticeship short.’’ 

‘’I am sure she will appreciate that.’’ Tom Riddle grimaced. He had forgotten about Hermione, as strange as it was. To be fair he had had a lot on his mind the previous couple of days. Hermione would come as a welcome change. ‘’I do miss the young girl.’’ Tom cracked a small smile. 

Zorka closed her eyes and nodded. She crossed her arms. ‘’Hermione’s a good kid. I hope she’s having fun.’’

‘’Well, I can bet she isn’t going through any of this emotional whirlwind we are.’’

Zorka chuckled. Tom still enjoyed hearing her laugh with him. It was a much better alternative to hearing people screaming for him to stop torturing them, in any case. The sun would soon rise, but neither he nor Zorka felt like moving from this place. This was an end of an era and they would see the new dawn together. If things went well, this would be the last dawn they would depend upon each other. 

His hands trailed towards hers and he took it, squeezing some life into it. She squeezed his back, as acknowledgement for the years they had spent together and how she would not forget them, but that soon their time together would be finished and that they had to accept this. 

The first rays of the winter sun broke through the trees and warmed the mages. 

It was a new dawn. 

It was a new life. 

* * *

’’What are we to do now?’’ Minerva was brave enough to ask a room full of people who all had ideas what ought to come next. None of them knew what was to be done now, though, and that was why she turned to Hermione Granger. She was not the youngest of them – that was young Harry, who had returned from St. Mungo’s with two boyfriends, as young Mr. Malfoy had predicted. Truly, the fairy blood was strong within him, as well. 

Hermione rubbed her hand anxiously. She wore a giant jumper that Molly had made for her. It was bright red with a brown G. Minerva did not think it was Molly’s best work. It was coming undone when Hermione tugged at a loose thread. ’’I will do what I said I would.’’ 

Minerva placed a hand on Hermione’s shoulder and squeezed it, bringing the witch slowly out of her head and the thoughts drowning her. ’’I do not doubt you. You are not a liar nor would anyone think so if you were to change your mind. Voldemort is dangerous.’’ 

The matter was that when Hermione flinched, Minerva knew why. ’’You do not think so?’’ 

’’I know he’s dangerous.’’ Hermione said, too quickly. While twiddling her thumbs she explained, all while trying to reign in her anxiety. ’’I know he can’t hurt me. What I don’t know is how I’m going to get him to come here.’’ 

’’No, that was plan A. We’ve since moved to plan H.’’ Minerva sighed. She pinched the bridge of her nose and pushed her glasses up. 

’’H?’’ Hermione had lost track of all of the plans Walburga had shot down. ’’I’m going mad.’’ 

‘’Aren’t we all?’’ A voice from behind them said. Minerva and Hermione turned to see Abraxas standing at the door frame. He offered them a drink. Minerva declined it. Hermione took the drink and clinked her glass with Abraxas’. Abraxas’ silver eyes were brighter than usual. He smiled inquisitively towards Hermione and asked her what they had been talking about. 

‘’I was informing Hermione that we were at Plan H.’’ 

‘’Wait we aren’t on plan 15?’’ Abraxas coughed and spilled some of the wine onto the floor. It happened to land on a fuzzy white rug. Hermione thought that he would be upset by this, but all he muttered was ‘good riddance’ and turned to Minerva for clarification: ‘’Plan H? What even is that accursed thing? When did we even switch from numbers to letters?’’

Hermione watched as the red wine tinged the white rug, turning it to a pinkish hue. She sent a cleaning spell at it, without her wand. When it worked all she could think of was that her mentor had taught her wandless magic. It ruined this victory for her. ‘’Mr. Abraxas,’’ her voice was different, especially now when everything was very, very real. 

‘’Yes, dear?’’ Abraxas hummed. Hermione couldn’t look him in the eyes. They were more potent than she had ever seen them and it felt like she was staring down the Fairy of the Bay, back when Zorka and Mr. Goldsmith -  _ Voldemort  _ had taken her to see. This summer had been the most wonderful summer she could remember; filled with wondrous knowledge and understanding people. Her hands curled to fists. It had been perfect. Now, however, those memories of this summer tainted themselves by revelations and frightening implications. 

‘’May I see the Hallows?’’ Perhaps they could lend her the strength she needed for this task of betrayal? Hermione was growing desperate. Too desperate and confused to note with what fear he stepped back and protectively cradled the hallows on his person. 

Minerva’s keen, cat eyes on the other hand? They  _ noticed _ . ‘’Abraxas, she will not keep them.’’

Abraxas refused, claiming that they would be dangerous for someone as young and inexperienced with such arcane magic as Hermione was. ‘’This is for her own good, Minerva.’’

Hermione did not fight him on this. She took it at face value. This spoke of how little she was in tune with the situation. Minerva did not fight him on this either, but she was suspicious and that was good enough for now.

A peacock cawed. And for those who were not used to such noise it was the loudest bloody thing in the world. Hermione actually jumped upon hearing the lovely and mellifluous melody. 

‘’Merlin,’’ Minerva grimaced at the noise. ‘’What is that?’’ She gathered her wits and her wand in hand. ‘’Are we under attack?’’

Abraxas rolled his too-silver eyes. ‘’Someone’s at the door, Minnie.’’ 

Minerva gestured for it: ‘’Go, be a host. We will not die without your stellar conversational skills.’’

* * *

Abraxas opened the door and saw a face he had thought lost to the absurd abroad. He closed the door on his way outside, ready to call this man in front of him a charlatan or a polyjuiced thief. His face was different without the mustache. His figure was different without the bubbly weight that everyone had associated with the man. He was a bohem with how many different foods he’d had at each party, ready to share them and introduce them to the youth. Voldemort had loved all of the food. It had been the first time he could have ever had crystallized pineapple. 

‘’My boy,’’ Horace Slughorn looked at him, perturbed by the sight in front of him. ‘’What is wrong with your eyes?’’ 

He did not mention the white hair that Abraxas had been gifted once he’d gone back from the afterlife. Nor the scars littering his face. Nor the exhaustion shining underneath his eyes. No, Slughorn had asked after his eyes. Abraxas reached for them and wondered what could possibly be wrong with them. They were still silver. ‘’N-nothing.’’ He whispered, taken aback by the question and the concern gleaming in Slughorn’s disquieted eyes.

‘’They have never been this bright before.’’ Horace explained. ‘’I have taught three generations of Malfoys.’’ What Slughorn had come here to speak to Abraxas about fell away in lieu of this matter. He surged forward and pulled Abraxas towards him, inching him away from the front door and to the gazebo he had seen in the garden. Hyperion had built it, Abraxas could talk and explain to guests when he gave them the tour for the first time. He knew every single difference and addition to this Manor and who had been responsible for its introduction. 

All Abraxas had contributed for Malfoy Manor was destroying portraits of accursed family members and stopping Antoinette from turning the Manor into Gothique architecture. 

‘’You taught my father, sir.’’ Abraxas did not want to think about Hyperion. He did not want to think about what Hyperion would think of Abraxas and his actions. Half of the time he could not even remember his father and the things he had told him, still clinging to this vision he’d been afforded as a son. Hyperion was, no doubt, differently opinionated among his peers and business partners. 

‘’He was the first generation of students I ever taught.’’ Horace patted Abraxas on the cheek and did not balk at the deep, ugly scars. 

They went to the gazebo and Horace conjured them chairs to sit in. They had fled from the snow that trickled down from the sky and washed the world in a layer of white. In the snow, Abraxas with his silver eyes, white hair, and pale complexion nearly couldn’t be spotted. It was good then, that he wore the robe that he did: peacock feathered with purple hues thrown to break the monotony. It was high collared and perfect for this type of weather. 

‘’I must speak to you about something.’’ Horace told him. He did not wait for Abraxas to give him any sign before continuing. This was urgent, then. ‘’I have spoken with Tom. I can imagine this to be a surprise to you, but he  _ is  _ alive.’’

‘’Alive?’’ Abraxas wondered. Then his mind caught up with Horace’s words. ‘’Sir, I am well aware that he is alive. You did not come inside, but half of the Order is there with a few escaped Death Eaters. The plan is to hunt him down and kill him in Yugoslavia - Serbia and Montenegro? Montenegro? Geography has never been a strong point for me.’’ Abraxas buried his head in his hands and groaned. 

Horace narrowed his eyes. His hands shook and he crossed his arms to keep them from shaking, whether with lividness or fear. Abraxas could not tell. But he could see through Horace. With the eyes and the power Death’s Hallows brought him. Horace was not an enemy. 

_ ‘’You  _ are plotting to kill him.’’ Horace’s lips barely formed the words. It was a shock to him. 

‘’I must. There is no other way. Unless he comes willingly.’’ Abraxas rubbed his chin inquisitively, but he stopped thinking along such lines. ‘’Voldemort would never do this.’’

‘’Voldemort would never.’’ Slughorn fought not to stutter against the word. ‘’But Tom, our Tom - he might.’’

Abraxas shook his head. ‘’Voldemort is all that remains of him. Tom Riddle is a painful subject. Nobby Leach’s portrait has told me the error of my ways.’’ He looked more fraught to speak of Nobby Leach than he was of speaking about killing Tom Riddle. Slughorn found this peculiar. 

‘’So you have finally admitted to killing him?’’

‘’No.’’ Abraxas slipped up. ‘’Those that know, know. Those that do not, will never know.’’

‘’Tom saved my life.’’ 

‘’If you are trying to sway me to stop - I must tell you, professor, it is too late for this.’’ Abraxas whispered, shakily glancing towards Malfoy Manor and all of the denizens putting pressure on him. ‘’It is too late for me. I was loyal, but my trust has been broken.’’

‘’How did you kill him?’’

Abraxas spotted Minerva standing at the window, her back was turned to him outside. She was speaking with someone. All Abraxas could think of was the night in the Chamber of Secrets and how he had killed Dumbledore. ‘’He begged me to.’’

‘’Nobby Leach begged you to die?’’ Slughorn doubted it. He kept a level head and a level tongue. 

‘’Dumbledore.’’

Slughorn’s eyes widened and he leaned back in his chair, straightening his back, and murmuring what a dire situation he’d found himself in. ‘’Why did you kill him?’’

‘’He begged me to do it.’’ Abraxas looked towards the ring he wore on his hand. It was a ring Slughorn remembered well. He had seen it worn by Tom. ‘’Dumbledore dabbled in things that were beyond him.’’ The eyes glowed. ‘’Beyond everyone.’’

Slughorn shuddered at such chilly, unfortunate words. ‘’Tom saved my life and I owe him a life debt. I am repaying it by giving you a message. He said that you did not deserve to suffer like this and he hopes you will live a good life now that your health is, hopefully, resorted. He said he left a potion of sorts on your grandson’s petrified body?’’ Slughorn was late to the game and therefore had no idea of what had come about both Tom and Abraxas in this lovely span of 1998-1999.

‘’Oh yes, I - uh - did get that. Good of him.’’ Abraxas said, awkwardly. He could feel no other way. Slughorn nodded. ‘’Thank you for telling me this. It’s very unhelpful.’’

‘’Yes, I imagine.’’ Slughorn said. Before he could finish what else Tom had told him to say and what else Slughorn himself had to say, he spotted Thoros Nott exiting Malfoy Manor and calling them both. 

‘’Come inside before you catch your DEATHS!’’ Then, peeved and traumatized and very angry, ‘’Do you want to die AGAIN, Abraxas?!’’

‘’No,’’ Abraxas stood and as he did the chairs Slughorn conjured dissipated, ‘’of course not, Thoros. I would never dream of putting you through that unless it were real.’’

‘’Good.’’ Thoros harrumphed. He went back inside. 

* * *

Marko shook hands with Tom. ‘’Ah, you’re living with me for now. I have an apartment in Budva.’’

Zorka coughed: ‘’Cough rich boy cough cough.’’

‘’I’ll be gone in a couple of weeks. Going on a ship to replenish my rich boy money.’’ He turned to Zorka and grinned a shite eating grin like only the youngest sibling knew how. 

Tom thanked Marko for his hospitality. ‘’You are too kind.’’

‘’Sometimes people like that have to exist, too.’’ 

‘’You sound like Arsenije when you talk yourself up like that.’’ Zorka rolled her eyes.

Marko grimaced. ‘’You ruined my moment with my pal Monty.’’ He slugged an arm around Tom’s shoulder and pulled him close. ‘’I always wanted to get him for a bit.’’

‘’I am not a toy.’’

‘’No, pal, you’re a novelty.’’

Tom rolled his eyes at that word. He muttered about purebloods.    


* * *

Slughorn came into Malfoy Manor addled with worry. He could not, however, take his eyes off of the sight in front of him. He saw Walburga Black – a student whose funeral he had attended (and it pained him to see his students die before him; it was against the natural order of things!). She had been so beautiful in death. Probably because she was silent and one could appreciate her beauty instead of fretting to get deafened by her words made of steel, coated with a layer of poison.

She was glaring fiercely at Alastor Moody (a student he had seen get disfigured throughout war and who had pushed himself to go harder than anyone else had, all for the good of the people he had sworn to protect) They were neck and neck and shouting, baring their teeth at each other like animals. Magic was grasped in their fingertips and they knew that if push came to shove, both would fight until the end.

Luckily, Minerva (another one of his students, goodness had he really taught everyone residing in MalFOY Manor?) put a stop to them before they could attack one another. She pushed them to the side, respectively, and told them to cool down. ’’We are all on the same bloody page! This is needless.’’ She reprimanded like they were her young gryffindors and not snakes and lions that were older than her. It was commendable to note the gaze Walburga levelled on Minerva did not deter the proud scottish woman. She was garbed in her tartan robe and standing up to her full height.

Walburga turned away from Minerva and from this angle, Horace balked at the sight of her. Half of her face, hidden minutes prior, was marred with wounds and he could see her muscles when she grimaced. Bone peeked out from a small part of the massive wound. It could not be healed with magic. Horace was certain, then, that necromancy had no place in this ritual that had brought her back. Necromancy did waste the brain away of the person getting resurrected, not the body. Yvette Malfoy had explained it to him on an occasion during teatime. She offered him crystalized pineapple because she knew he loved them and peppered it up with dashes of truth serum to gauge how well (or specifically how poorly) her son was behaving in class.

In fact, Slughorn remembered that during his last tea meeting, he’d brought along a special port to gift his gracious host. It had been around the woman’s fiftieth birthday, he was congratulating her, also, on becoming a grandmother.

Walburga set eyes on him and what a discomforting feeling it was, truly, to be faced with a natural legilimens like her. Slughorn brought up his shields to hide away his meeting with Tom Riddle and the way he’d pleaded. It would, he didn’t doubt for a second, please Walburga immensely to know that Tom Riddle suffered for his actions against them in war. He had begged Horace to speak to Abraxas when he returned to England. Slughorn was going to repay the boy’s wishes in exchange for saving his life from that fiendish vampire Lena. What a strange fixation the Balkans had on male children, truly...

’’Slug,’’ Walburga sounded like a young girl dressed in her school girl robes. ’’It is really our beloved Slug!’’

Bellatrix (another student of his, Slughorn was certain he was going to be more baffled by seeing this reunion of his previous students rather than the implication of such a reunion) propped her head from another room and scanned Slughorn up and down before exclaiming: ’’It’s the SLUG!’’

Even though Walburga and Bellatrix both charged to greet him it was, actually, Avery Jr. that knocked him down in a hug. ’’Slug!’’ He cried. ’’He’s really here – this must be a good omen! Slug always knows how to make things better!’’ The man was bawling. Slughorn couldn’t take this sort of attention. Especially not when Bellatrix (a woman that had tortured people to insanity, he would be wise not to forget) latched onto him and told him that she thought about his classes while in Azkaban and that his rants on proper potion ingredient preparation were just enough of a tedious and structured mantra that kept her mind from rotting faster than expected. Walburga cried about her dead children. Avery Jr. said that he would never live up to his father’s expectations and that this haunted him. Thoros joined up in the festivities and cried about his son and how he had wronged him by being involved in this mess of a situation. ‘’My dear Elektra would be so disappointed in me!’’ 

Abraxas blinked. He looked like an arcane sight staring down at him. 

Slughorn still couldn’t keep from watching how his appearance had changed. It was unlike anything he had ever read about. 

His hair was white instead of platinum and he looked even paler than Malfoys got. Those fairy eyes, Slughorn noted, they glowed much brighter than Lucius or Hyperion’s had. If it weren’t for that colourful and peafowl themed robe, Slughorn would have certainly said that Abraxas looked as fair as snow and could be lost in a blizzard forever. His dear boy exuded power that was unrivalled in the room. Compared to all of these past students of his, Abraxas could not be comprehended.

Slughorn thanked Abraxas when he pulled him up. If he were a true fair folk like his ancestors were, it would have been suicide to thank them. As strange as it was to know and think about, the fair folk got insulted with thanks. They saw everything they did as a gift to be imparted upon poor, creative humanity. In exchange, however, they did not want petty thanks – they wanted to be equally gifted. But, Abraxas was a person. And he reacted with a small nod when thanked. Slughorn exhaled a sigh of relief at that.

’’Sir, would you like something to drink?’’ Abraxas tilted his head and it was strange. Slughorn pulled up his shields now, not for the Blacks roaming about the Manor, but for the fairy blooded wizard who was master of his manor.

Slughorn breathed in. ’’I needed to speak to you about some things. We got cut off before.’’ He looked to the rest of the gaggle of mages. Surprisingly he noted some fresh blood he had not even taught (that must have been Draco, the youngest Malfoy – he looked to be a spitting image of Hyperion – unlike Lucius who favoured his grandmother’s side more) 

’’Is it urgent?’’ Abraxas asked. He fretted. ‘’I had hoped the unseemly conversation had come to an end.’’

Slughorn nodded. He would not pretend it was not, for the sake of anyone. ’’Dire, even.’’ 

Abraxas blinked. He ushered Slughorn somewhere private and told everyone to go over the plan with Hermione again (a young girl who looked like she was going to be sick to her stomach with stress). ’’Dear Slug and I must catch up over coffee to warm ourselves.’’ 

’’Coffee?’’ 

’’Tea bores me terribly. I may be a bad englishman, but it associates me with illness and I do not care much for it!’’ Abraxas cracked a pleased, triumphant smile. 

‘’Sir, are you here to help us?’’ Thoros asked. 

’’Is that a trick question, my boy? I tire of them in my old age.’’ Slughorn massaged his temples and followed where Abraxas led. They moved past beautiful paintings and portraits that scrutinized them with extreme judgement. It was good that Abraxas had silenced them all after his mother’s unfortunate – fortunate passing. Slughorn heaved a sigh. He did not know how to feel about returning here. Especially not when he figured where Abraxas was leading them towards. 

Slughorn had come and gone from Malfoy Manor for generations. He was Hyperion’s potions’ master, Abraxas’ Head of House, and Lucius’ mentor. The Manor itself did not change often, nor was it allowed to be changed much when it was changed. The tearoom Hyperion had made had remained perfectly preserved. Elf magic, most likely. 

’’Here we will not be overheard nor eavesdropped. Our conversation may be full of venom and burning with Promtheus’ flame.’’ Abraxas spoke in code. Slughorn deciphered it easily enough. He was a Slytherin and this was how all Slytheirns spoke among each other. It was a guardedness that curbed their tongues and stopped them from showing their true colours. No other House had this problem. Only the sickly, paranoid, and hurt children in Slughorn’s care. It was a curse to be their Head of House. Because to see the things they would have to go through later in life was painful to watch. This was why Slughorn went abroad at the first whiff of the war and never came back, fearful of bearing witness to their destruction. Most of his colleagues had asked him why he never had children, and Slughorn had always made up a reason about it not being the right time, or it not being a practise he was interested in – but it was because he had had so many children and he had failed most of them. That was a heavy burden on its one. 

This room was brighter than the others. Antoinette, Abraxas’ bride, was a gothic soul and she wanted dramatic architecture – she wanted to bring great change to Malfoy Manor and its historic building. Abraxas, thankfully, had stopped her from turning this beautiful manor into something right out of a horror novel. 

This was where he had drunk with Yvette, when he had come to congratulate her for her grandchild. The entire time she had talked about how much she looked forward to raising Lucius the right way. The entire time he had sat in the same place he sat now, across from Abraxas (Yvette, then) and watched her speak ill of her son. It was good, Slughorn had remembered that moment vividly because it haunted his dreams and did not let him sleep well during his imprisonment in Albania, it was good that Abraxas had had Tom. 

Slughorn could not have had enough strength to go through with what he had come to do that day. Not without being certain that Tom would have been blamed. Tom, wonderful, monstrous boy that he was. A murderer and dark arts specialist at that age. Really, compared to such a house guest – Slughorn would have never been suspected of poisoning the Matriarch of Malfoy Manor with snake venom-based wine. 

They drank coffee. It travelled down his throat easily, warming him and helping him awaken from his thoughts and demons. 

Abraxas did not hurry him. It was a kind thing. Slughorn wrapped his cold hands around the warm coffee mug and drank the bitter concoction. He did not speak until he had drunk half of it already. Only then did he have the strength and proper state of mind to speak the words he needed to: ’’I think Tom loves you, my boy.’’

Abraxas’ reaction to this was not how Slughorn expected it. He had expected rage of some kind, a show of betrayal – but all Abraxas did was to set his cup loudly to the table. ’’What did he say?’’ His words sounded different. No, not the words, specifically. But the way Abraxas spoke wasn’t how Slughorn remembered him. Though, to be fair – the last time he had seen Abraxas was during Walburga’s funeral (the only time he had dared set foot in England after running away with his tail between his legs). 

The manner with which Abraxas held himself up high was different. Slughorn did not want to delve deeper as to why this was, but it didn’t look how Tom held himself either – so he could rule out the ring being the influence of this. Absentmindedly Abraxas patted his chest, specifically an oddly coloured pocket square peeking out from his chest pocket. 

Slughorn had once confiscated a similarly patterned cloak from James Potter. He did not want to think about this. No, his eyes strayed to the ring and he spotted the stone embedded in it. His teeth began to chatter and he took another gulp of the coffee to stall for time before needing to speak. 

Abraxas took out an elegant wand (Albus’ wand – no, Slughorn corrected himself – he had known Albus’ wand before 1945 and that was not his wand, it was the wand he had been forced into protecting) and swished it over Slughorn’s form, hugging him with warmth. ’’No guest of mine will be uncomfortable. We Malfoys are a hospitable bunch.’’ He lauded his ancestors how every pureblood scion did. ’’Malfoys are of fairy stock, after all.’’

The wand, the cloak, the stone. 

The way Abraxas  _ spoke _ . The way his eyes  _ glowed  _ hauntingly. It all made perfect sense to Slughorn, as educated in these arts as he was. The magic he had learned as a boy differed from the ones Hyperion, Abraxas, Lucius, or this newest generation had learned. It grew watered down and more structured as the Ministry decided to make reformations. 

The word Horcrux, for example, was taboo. Back in his day as a student it was spoken about in theory, but at an advanced level that not many could get to. Nowadays that word was as lost to British magic as Binns was lost trying to teach 20th century history. 

’’My dear boy, you are Master of Death.’’ 

Abraxas’ lips pulled back into a sneer. It was the ugliest Abraxas had ever looked, merry fellow that he was. ’’No one can be  _ Master _ of Death, sir.’’ It was said with such hate. ’’Anyone that tries to be shall end in pain and suffering. This is well known. Why people hunt for the Hallows will be the death of them and it will be an unkind one, this I assure you.’’ 

Slughorn, from an outside perspective, was beginning to think that he was not having a conversation with Master of Death so much as Actual Death. 

This complicated things. 

‘’Yvette Malfoy was poisoned.’’ 

‘’Hyperion Malfoy was  _ killed _ .’’ Abraxas parried. ‘’It was not a heart attack, just as it was not Yvette dying of illness. Unless one would count being a total cunt as an illness that finally did her in. Then, sure, we can say that she died of illness.’’

‘’Yes,’’ Slughorn gulped, ‘’I do remember your mother well. She is like a parasite I cannot shake. What was the poison?’’

‘’Venom based. Voldemort’s doing.’’

Slughorn didn’t touch his coffee and he waited for Abraxas to put his cup down and ask what this had to do with anything. ‘’Did he tell you to tell me he’s done it? I remember him always denying it. I don’t know why. It isn’t as if I would be angry with him!’’

‘’He denied it because he did not do it.’’ Slughorn wrung his hands together and out of nervous habit he folded his hands to his lap. ‘’I do apologize for causing you two any rift because of this, but I could not stand to see you wasting away underneath that woman’s horrible influence. She did not suffer for long. The elf that poured the wine was unaware of this and I took it with me so it would not speak up about the matter.’’

‘’You did ask my mother to gift you an elf.’’ Abraxas remembered. ‘’Hoppy, if I remember?’’

‘’Yes, lovely creature.’’

‘’You killed my mother.’’ Abraxas snorted a laugh. He could not believe how led astray he and Voldemort had both been by this. ‘’Not Tom how I thought and idolized him for. It was  _ you _ .’’

‘’Tom cannot handle seeing you in pain. He hopes that you will find closure and live. I hope you will disband this idea and go to him, tell him that he will be hunted to his death. This is wrong. If you must bring him to justice take him alive.’’

‘’You think any of these people can take him alive?’’ Abraxas scowled. ‘’Not even with all of them combined like this do they stand to win against him if he is at the same power he was before. He must have made allies wherever he is. Ambushing him and killing him is the only way.’’ Abraxas raised his arms and the loose robe sleeves fell to reveal the bracelet of horcruxes. 

Slughorn cursed when he saw it. ‘’You are much more cruel than I could have ever hoped, my boy. Doesn’t his soul sway you?’’

‘’His soul tried to kill me.’’ 

‘’He is troubled.’’

‘’Do not tell me about him. I ought to have known him best but he kept secrets from me and went behind my back to pretty Nobby Leach.’’ 

‘’Is… is that why you killed him?’’

‘’No.’’ Abraxas hissed. The power of Death surged through him. He took the cup of coffee in his hand and crushed it, spilling the hot liquid over his robe. It caused him to stand up and shout in pain. ‘’Fuck!’’

"What do you mean that was not the reason? The way you killed him - and I did learn of it from poor Mandy Leach - it was calculated and cruel. I did not want to believe her words. I said to her 'No, Abraxas is a kind boy. He is incapable of something so profoundly monstrous.' She called me old and told me to stick to my trade. I do not know when it is that all of you became the people you have, but I have missed it. I am not wise enough to differentiate between the lot of you children. You say you did not kill poor Nobby Leach because of Tom, but you did not toss at him the killing curse. That is impersonal. That is uncalculated. It is just using a curse what it is meant to be used for. Nor, for that matter, did you use a slicing hex to slit his throat. We are not Christians, mages. Purebloods. The twenty eight. It is not commonplace for us."

Abraxas was shaking from both fury and guilt. Horace Slughorn would not stop speaking until he saw Abraxas whole and not this amalgam of energy puppeteering his young pupil. He clasped his hands into fists and held them firmly at his side. "Stop it." 

"Nobby Leach wanted to share his muggleborn culture with the magical world. I do not think there was ever a Minister as beloved as he was. Only a small portion of the Twenty Eight hated him. You were among them and you were the most deadly. Would you mind telling me, my boy, what it is that made you so paranoid over letting people have a few concerts on Christmas to celebrate it? Or for the children who do not have need for morbid things like Samhain, why is it so dangerous and evil for them to go door to door in little costumes?"

When phrased like this, Abraxas looked like an absolute madman for his actions in the 60s.

"I could not lose my father." Abraxas was still shaking. Harder. "If Samhain got banned I would need to run from my law, from my home, from my right as a mage to practise my rites in order to feel a connection to my father." 

"That was never in question. Nobby Leach wanted to add. Never take away." 

He screwed his eyes shut and shouted: "What is the point of this? I know all of this now. I did not know then. I am not aware if you know this but I was high when I killed him. I was not thinking!"

"That is where this becomes odd and hard to follow. If you were truly just killing mindlessly, you would not have killed him in the manner you had. See, as I have come to understand it - you knew the exact thing that would destroy Nobby Leach. He is a believer, how we celebrate Samhain and Walpurgisnacht and Yule. We have principals we must abide by and so does every religion. You planned it. You weighed your options.’’

Abraxas could not breathe. It was a truth he had buried deep and wished never to unearth. But Slughorn forced it to the sun. 

‘’Did you know that Leach’s parents didn’t want to bury him on their family plot?’’ Slughorn added as a curiosity and not a great shame to thrust onto Abraxas’ back. He flinched upon hearing this. It was news to him. ‘’They didn’t have the same understanding of the situation as mages did. We understood that someone had killed him. The public knew even less than we did. But when explained the death how Mandy had explained it - ‘’

‘’ _ Stop speaking. _ I know I’ve done wrong and this will forever mark me. I know this!’’

‘’How did you know that killing him like that would hurt him the most?’’

‘’I wanted to ruin him.’’ Abraxas choked on his words. He couldn’t look at Slughorn. Even though Slughorn did not judge him. He was an impartial party. ‘’I did ruin him. His family discarded him because - because of the circumstances around his death. They are muggles, they never look beyond what is in front of them. It was what awaited  _ him  _ for trying to meddle in  _ our  _ affairs. Tom told me about Christianity when we were young. He quickly discarded these beliefs, but he did tell me about ‘Hell’.’’ Abraxas snorted. He embedded his nails into his shoulders. ‘’It’s very selfish of this god of theirs to demand they die of natural causes in order to get into Heaven. If it weren’t for Moody that had seen me come into his office, followed by Voldemort - then everyone would believe their unstable, mudblood Minister had killed himself.’’ He was sure he was drawing blood with how hard he held himself, as if mimicking a straitjacket. His eyes were wild, but they were not as bright anymore. 

Slughorn pushed him. ‘’Why would you make it look like that?’’

‘’He was going to take Samhain from me. I was going to take Heaven from him. Nothing less would have satisfied me then.’’ 

Abraxas finally could not speak anymore of this. His eyes dulled to their regular silver and he fell into his chair and wept, attempting to hide his face away from Slughorn. 

Slughorn pushed himself up. He walked over to Abraxas and whispered as they hugged. "Do not make the same mistake. Be in control of all of your facilities when you find Tom. I do not allow you to sway under this power. Tom is not Nobby Leach. Promise me you will be in control of yourself."

"I promise."

"Promise me, Abraxas, that you will be the one to meet him first. Do not let him die at the hands of these killers.’’

‘’ _ I _ am a killer.’’

‘’Yes, so is he. However,’’ Slughorn raised his hand up in the air and continued in a didactic tone, ‘’you are both too emotionally invested in each other and you will stall.’’

Abraxas looked up at Slughorn. He could not believe what he was hearing. Slughorn believed that they could make it out of this alive - both of them! 

‘’I think you may be the most shifty person I have ever met.’’

‘’Well,’’ Slughorn pushed his chest out and proudly answered, ‘’they do not let just  _ anyone  _ be Slytherin’s Head of House.’’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Zorka's name comes from Zora which means Dawn in Montenegrin 
> 
> Also it's the author's birthday so feel free to congratulate me on still being alive~


	49. Montgomery Burns

Hermione arrived to Montenegro feeling weighed down by the world around her. It wasn't the thick, woolen sweater that was going to strangle her with its loving embrace that made her feel this way. Nor was it the way that the Montenegrin winter was not nearly as difficult to bear as the ones she had gotten used to in Scotland. Damn it all, she might need to lose a couple of layers. Hermione fought to spring free from her scarf (it was golden because the colour looked good with her hair, but it was also a Gryffindor colour that told her to be brave)

This was not going to end well for her if she had to keep looking at the colour of Godric Gryffindor, her House's Founder, to remind herself to be brave and do the right thing. And she was certain that this had to be the right thing! Otherwise she was fucked and there was nothing that could get her out of this situation.

She arrived swiftly to the place she had grown to call home these past few months, only to find that the cabin was gone entirly. Nothing could prepare her for what lay in front of her. It was completely missing, in a such a way that had Hermione tragically nostalgic. She had lived with the _Dark Lord_ and he had debated with her like her greatest friend. Like how she had once debated her parents about books and muggle history, long before they realised that just because they couldn't keep up with this new world she was entangled with they should let her go, freely into their embrace.

The cabin was gone. In its stead remained a clearing covered with a small, thin layer of ice. Hermione rubbed her hands together. She took out her wand from her sleeve and cast revealing charms. There were no new wards in place that could hide the cabin. It had been erased from existence with that explosion. Hermione hoped it would have been rebuilt. She truly did not want to give Zorka more work to do. That witch had been nothing if not kind to Hermione. The explosion was a necessary evil. Hermione needed to break away from Montgom – _Voldemort's_ sphere of interest by distracting him long enough so the cavalry back in England could rally to Montenegro to attack him.

Marko whistled. Hermione whriled around and saw him hiding among the trees. ''Hello,'' he spoke English for business, but his smile was local and warm like the rakija Zorka had given her during summer to try (before the conference where Hermione had sworn off mixing alcohol and alcohol altogether).

''Hi,'' Hermione waved. She must have looked an odd sight to be waving around her scarf in her hand instead of it laying neatly around her throat. Like a noose, a part of her morbidly thought. This was suicide what she was going to go through.

Voldemort would see through her. Hermione had been taught by Bellatrix and Walburga how to shield her mind away, but it had been a quick – on the go lesson. They said that Hermione had much to improve, but that it would do. ''There were so many spies sent to enemy sides that did not have even this much as preperation. You will do just fine. Distract him with knowledge and call us to ambush him.'' Walburga had cruelly said, wriggling her brows in sheer joy to see the death Of LORD Voldemort.

''Where's Mr. Goldsmith?'' Hermione would not falter on her msision. She prepared to call with her patronus and give the necessary sign.

''Ah, he's at my apartment. I rent it.'' Of course he did. Marko was the only one that knew how to make money. ''Not to him, though.'' He shook his head left and right and conceded: ''He is very poor.''

Hermione blinked. She did not know how to respond to this. So she just smiled and nodded and allowed to be led to where Montgomery Goldsmith aka Lord Voldemort was at this moment. Hermione mustered enough strenght and gave Marko her hand to apparate.

It nearly crushed her lungs and caused her to throw up over some very fine rugs when she saw her mentor. He was snuggled up on a couch, holding a blanklet over his old legs (this man was in his seventies, Hermione reminded herself and had to say that he definitely looked the part now that she had the context). ''Hermione,'' his eyes sparked with life and they were red. That colour finally had sense. It was soulless red, not how he had explained it to her as a failed body building experiment. Quickly she averted her gaze from his lest he infiltrated her mind and called her out on this betrayal she had cooked up with the Order, and the Death Eaters. They were not very loyal to him, Hermione had to admit. Betrayal always hurt the most.

He scooted to the side of the couch and told her to sit with him for a bit. ''I had missed you, Hermione.'' It was a fond smile he speared her with, adding salt to already guilty injury. Hermione smiled back, feeling utterly dreadful.

They were watching cassete tapes.

''I am tired so I will not be teaching you anything today.'' He yawned and defended himself. ''Even a mentor as amazing as I am deserves a day to laze about.''

Hermione agreed. Quietly she inquired: ''What are you watching?''

''Marko gets me Simpsons tapes.''

They were watching an episode of the bloody Simpsons while Hermione was going to peel her skin off with her fingers and scream into it once she acomplished this task.

This particular episode had a lot of Mr. Burns in it. Her mentor – again, Hermione reminded herself this man was Voldemort, the greatest and most destructive force that had razed Britain during the 70s – laughed his arse off. He elbowed Hermione and tried to get her to talk about this. Hermione just smiled and whispered that it was a funny show. Perhaps it could be funny were she in a better mood.

Hermione did not know that Mr. Burns' name was Montgomery Burns. She side-eyed Voldemort and thought that this man was the most chaotic creature she had ever encountered. ''Sir, would you say you are a big fan of the Simpsons?''

''I have liked them for the past couple of years. Near a decade, I suppose.'' He fanned this away with a casual hand wave. Hermione did not know what to do with the informaiton that Voldemort had chosen to name his alias after a Simpsons character.

''What... do you like about Mr. Burns?''

''He's just ridiuclous.'' Voldemort explained to her, trying and failing to smile at when Mr. Burns shouted to send his precious hounds on someone.

Hermione squinted. ''He reminds me a bit of someone.''

''Really, who?'' Voldemort asked. He raised his brows.

Hermione squinted harder. ''Abraxas Malfoy.''

''Oh for fuck's sake.'' Voldemort laughed the hardest. It, also, sounded humourless. ''Why am I not surprised by this?''

''Draco once told me that he sent his sea of peafowls on a man for insulting his wardrobe.'' Hermione mimicked Mr. Burn's voice badly: ''Draco, release the peafowls!''

They finished a couple more episodes of the Simpsons before Hermione asked: ''Uh, sir, what exactly do you have more planned for me to learn?''

''I was a bit surprised that you blew through my curriculum in one summer. I've had to improvize for the past few months, actually.''

Hermione flushed red at that. ''I did not mean to invonvenience you.''

Voldemort said that it was not an inconvenience. ''I liked being given such an opportunity.''

But they ambled about this entire afternoon, holding small talk as Hermione grew more and more fed up and electrified. Voldemort was in front of her and he wasn't doing anything nefarious. He was just kneading dough and asking her if she'd like to help make something, as cooking tended to be a very calming practise. ''I have had a terrible weekend.''

''Yeah,'' Hermione agreed, remembering the Battle of Grimmauld Place and how she had made sure to hide Crookshanks underneath Regulus' bed before anyone got a chance to accidentally kill her familiar. ''I can imagine.''

''No, you cannot, child.'' he gave a humourless laugh and it sounded how Hermione had seen the pensieve memories Alastor Moody had made her watch in order to get her on the right side of things. He had grabbed a hold of the back of her head and dunked her face inside of the Black pensieve, showing atrocity after atrocity – memory after memory of Lord Voldemort. Montgomery Goldsmith could not be compared to Lord Voldemort. Hermione had found her mentor to be a happy person, deep inside. A person a little more grounded than the one she had seen dodging curses left and right.

Hearing Lord Voldemort was not a good sign. Hermione gulped and wondered when her opportune moment could be to call the aurors to here... Perhaps she ought to do it now as he's engrossed in his culinary masterpiece?

Hermione swished her wand through the air and tried to cast the patronus from her heart. She thought about her parents telling her how proud they were of her. Nothing yielded and Hermione's wand arm shook in impatience and worry. This entire plan – dubbed H.12 because of the revisions – rellied solely on Hermione being able to cast a patronus. It was the fastest mode of communication for a mage and it was _failing_.

The panic must have registered across Hermione's face because Mont – VOLDEMORT stopped his preperation to come and see what the fuss was about. Hermione's plan was getitng foiled right in front of her eyes. He would ask her why she needed a patronus and Hermione would lie, of course, but maybe this time he wouldn't trust her at face-value? Maybe he'd become fed up with taking Hermione's words at face-value? Oh this was all really spiralling downward.

''Are you all right?'' He placed a hand across her wand arm and guided it from its rigid, stressed position.

''It isn't working.'' Hermione squeaked. He had her wand arm. He could disarm her and then do whatever he pleased with her after finding out that she betrayed him. Hermione was doomed. She didn't dare look into his eyes, and he noticed this – of course he did, he was Hogwarts' Brightest Mind.

''Have you tried meditating?'' It was the mage equivalent to turning off an electronic device and then turning it back on.

''I've been a bit scattered, actually.'' His hand slid off of hers. Hermione gripped her wand tigther.

''Has something happened?'' Voldemort should not have been this concerned for her well being. Hermione was a muggleborn. She was definitely not supposed to be someone Lord Voldemort cared about in any capacity.

Hermione took a couple of steps away to give herself a fair distance. He noticed and frowned. It wasn't one of those scowling frowns, really. Not how Minerva McGonagall had frowned at the Trio's escapades. This one was worried. Hermione rubbed her thumb over her index finger to steady herself.

''Whatever may or may not have happened,'' Voldemort said, ''know that you can speak to me about it. I hope I have shown you this much throughout this apprecinteship. Have I done something to upset you perhaps? I know,'' he looked around Marko's apartment, ''it isn't like the cabin, but it's fine. It's not for much longer. Only five months left and then you can go and do what you like. For now, however, I would appreciate it if you could tell me if you want me to make cookies.''

''Cookies.'' Hermione's voice cracked from the sheer lack of sense attributing that concept to the Dark Lord.

''Yes. Cookies.'' Voldemort tilted his head and blinked at her. ''Are you all right?'' He approched her and placed the back of his palm against her forehead. ''Are you ill? Portkey travel can wear you down and this weather – gods, it's terrible living in the rainiest bloody town in this begotten country.''

Voldemort kept speaking ordinary things to Hermione. He was pretending that he was Montgomery Goldsmith and nobody else. But Hermione could not play this game. She was not spy material. She was a loud fighter and this was why she was a Gryffindor. Bravery was choosing to go through with something difficult even while under fear's influence. Hermione squared her shoulders up and spoke through Voldemort's idle chatter. ''Sir,''

He turned to her and he looked so lost, so unfocused, so despondent. Unlike the cheerful American persona he was triyng to play. Hermione could tell the difference now that she knew what to look out for.

''What is it, Hermione?''

''Sir,'' Hermione's wand was shaking, ''could you stop?''

That had made him look at her oddly. ''I do not understand.'' He had stopped moving entirely. His hands were folded behind his back and the serpentine scales devoring his skin were a stark reminder that this man was capable of transformative magic that far exceeded Hermione's knowledge.

She was not a fool. Hermione was aware of how easily he could beat her in combat. But, her wand raised to aim at him. His eyes began to widen in bright, unfaltering confusion. Sparkling behind the worry was anger.

Hermione was beginning to think that this was definitely not a good way to go about this. It was easy to blame Moody and everybody for sending her here without proper training. She was not a trained soldier, but she had duelled Voldemort far more often than she had betrayed him – so, Hermione yearned to enter familiar ground. Even if the way to go about it was incredibly dramatic. Though, Hermione could explain this as her just taking from what both Voldemort and Abraxas had taught her over the years. With them as her mentors, overdramaticism was a given.

''Explain yourself, Hermione.''

''Well,'' Hermione appreciated that he wasn't going to fetch his wand and escalate the situation, because Hermione was going to lose her goddamn mind over the fact that she had THE Lord Voldemort held at wandpoint. ''Well, it's a bit, a tad – just a smidge difficult to explain. I,''

''Hermione, what do you hope to accomplish by waving that wand towards me?'' He didn't ask in worry that she would go through with it. It was very condescending. Hermione _could_ shoot. She had to do it in order to incapacitate him and get word out via portkey – because for some reason her own magic was working against her and wasn't letting her manifest her patronus. Did this betrayal really shake her so much that she could not summon a happy memory powerful enough to help her cast it?

''I mean, honestly, kind of , did not plan to do this. I'm improvizing.'' Hermione was really going insane, wasn't she? She was having an awkward conversation with Lord Voldemort while threatening his life. ''Like, arms in the air?''

''Are you... mugging me?'' The confusion grew tenfold harder on his face. It made for a strange sight to behold.

''No!'' Hermione was a lot of things, but a mugger was not one of them! She needed to set the record straight. ''I'm just... telling you to do as I say to avoid getting harmed?''

''Harmed?'' Now the confusion grew into disbelief. Hermione wanted to eat her words and never think about them agian because the more she spoke the less sure of herself she sounded. ''Why would you think of harming me?'' The bastard even smiled one of those loopsided smiles. He didn't think that he was in any danger!

''Because!'' Hermione reminded Voldemort to get his hands up where she could see them. She had no idea why he obliged. Maybe he was fascinated by her mental breakdown and wanted to see where it would go next. ''Because you can't just be watching the Simpsons! Okay! I said it! It's very strange!''

Voldemort had a rule about interacting with people who ended each sentence they spoke with an exclamation point, but he would make an exception for his stressed and frazzled apprentice. He held his hands in the air for her. She spelled them in that position, making it so he couldn't lower them down. To further commiunicate, he said, very carefully: ''If you have something you want to watch, of course we can switch over from the Simpsons. Is there something else that is bothering you? I really hope that this sort of reaction isn't only because of the Simpsons. This is not a dictatorship-''

Hermione couldn't help it. She laughed at that word coming out of Voldemort's mouth. ''Oh, that's pretty rich coming from you, _my lord?_ ''

And instantly the concern was traded for guardedness. The smile fell and was replaced with a blank face. Voldemort lifted his head and the slight body gestured differed. He tried to pull his hands down and get his wand out, now that he knew Hermione was not just having a very complicated and participatory anxiety attack, but had found out about his deep dark secret! Her magic was strong, though, and it held against his pulling. His magic was just as unfocused and just as dazed as Hermione herself was. Both of them had had difficult weekends.

''When did you figure it out?'' There was no trace of Montgomery Goldsmith's voice. That role had died along with that cabin, Hermione was sure. But the manner of grandstanding was different to the memories she'd seen. Undeniably this was Lord Voldemort – she could tell because his feet were not bound and he took decisive steps towards her, to crowd her. But there was, also, something deeper – something fragile that contrasted the assurdness of Lord Voldemort. ''Did you know the entire time?'' The betrayal shone darkly at that thought.

''No! Not the entire time. Only recently, when you taught me how to fly.'' Hermione took a step back, and another, and another – until she kissed the wall with her back. She pointed her wand at his neck and told him that she was definitely going to use this against him. ''You know, for a man with so many horcruxes you sure are acting very casually about the prospect of fatal injury.''

He bared his teeth in a sour, acidic smile. ''I am surprised by you, Hermione.''

A shudder ran up her back. Hermione told him that she knew a lot of dangerous spells this up close. ''I'll blow you up.'' To him it was obvious that she would not go through with it. To her, it was even more.

''No,'' He shook his head mirthlessly, making sure that his soulless eyes pooled into her frightened ones, letting her know very well that he did not buy a moment of her forced bravado. ''You will do no such thing, Hermione. You are not a killer. Tell me, child, do you want to do this?''

''You're Voldemort.''

He hissed at that name. She repeated it and scalded him with all of the memories he associated with it. ''Voldemort is pure evil.''

''Voldemort,'' he sneered and tried to get closer, but Hermione pushed him with her hand away this time, telling him not to try anything, ''is someone you have looked up to, Hermione. How does it feel?'' His eyes were glowing and his magic was growing. Hermione knew that what little time she had the upperhand would end. ''How does it feel to have respected someone you deem evil?''

Hermione tried not to let his words get to her, but her magic was weakening and his was going stronger.

''You must feel so silly and confused, don't you child?'' He slipped one hand down and surged to grab Hermione's chin with it, disablancing her enough that Voldemort could slip the other hand down from its bind. With his other hand he slapped the girl's wand away and sneered: ''Tell me who has sent you. Who created this wedge between mentor and apprentice? The bond we have, Hermione, is considered very important in mage communities. For these people to warp it by making you go against me like this ... it is unthinkable. It is shameful. You cannot hurt me just as I cannot hurt you.''

''I wasn't supposed to duel you.'' Hermione pulled herself away from his grasp, but now she was wandless and his wandless magic was much stronger than hers.

''Who sent you?''

''Bellatrix Black did.'' Hermione had been taught to use that name as a distraction.

It had worked. Voldemort looked startled to hear that his own General had betrayed him, too. ''Is there anyone that is loyal to me?'' He whispered, mainly to himself. His eyes closed, for the most fleeting moment. Hermione used it in order to kick Voldemort in the shins. Suddenly a sharp stab went through her shin, too, and both mentor and apprentice were in pain, dancing around each other - realising that they needed to apprehend the other without harming each other.

''What were you supposed to do then,'' Voldemort sneered, ''were you going to lead me out to their location?''

''We moved locations.'' Hermione liked having them at a distance. ''I gave them the cabin's location.''

''Ah, the cabin did not burn down by accident.'' Voldemort pieced together. He settled his eyes on Hermione and praised: ''Clever girl. I have underestimated you severely. I have _trusted_ you. That was my number one mistake.''

Hermione flinched at the harshness of the words. They rang true, but it did not mean they were easy to stomach. ''I was supposed to cast a patronus.''

''Intent is magic.'' He laughed at her confusion as to why the spell did not work. ''You do not want to betray me, you sweet, scared child. You are confused. Let me explain the situation to you, please. I am sure that you will be able to understand –''

''Did you kill muggleborns just because they were muggleborns during the war?'' Hermione's voice cracked, but she would not back down.

''It was war – ''

''Yes or no.''

His reluctance to answer simply was answer enoguh. ''Hermione, it was a lot more complicated than that.''

She nodded. Her voice was wobbly. ''Ah, no, it's very clear to me. You tried running from your actions and now you can't run anymore.'' Through tears she was looking at him, wondering how she could have ever trusted him and wondered if her mentor was not that evil, that terrible, that monstrous. ''You've split your soul so many times, sir.'' Even now she called him sir.

He did not approach her because he did not know what he could do to her without the bond between them acting up. ''I have.'' He balled his hands into fists and waited for more abuse to come his way. More of his apprentice hurling frightened, horrified words towards him. This was the last thing he had ever wanted to happen. ''What of it?''

''Did you really hate yourself so much?'' Hermione whispered, keying in to something that none of the aurors had been able to do, that Dumbledore had not zeroed in on, that the Order had never thought of. She keyed into this and struck him. ''So much that you kept getting rid of pieces of your own soul?'' He had explained what the horcruxes meant and how one made them. She knew better than anyone what a horcrux meant. The first one was justified for immortality, but the rest of them were a product of a sick mind.

''Is Abraxas all right?''

And that was when Hermione's tears dried up and she turned to rage. ''What you've done to him is unforgivable! It is beyond unforgivable.'' Her shoulders were shaking. She moved so she was closer to the kitchen, only the dining table between them now. They circled each other like animals. ''How could you poison someone that loves you so much? You must really be insane and evil to do such a thing.''

Evil was a word that kept getting tossed around. It denoted something so despicable that it had to be universally hated and held accountable.

He gritted his teeth and slammed his palms against the table. Hermione flinched at the noise. He hissed at her to shut up about things she did not understand.

''Oh, because I'm too _young_ to understand?''

''No, because you were not there!'' Voldemort's skin became littered with faint, curant sparks. He avoided looking at Hermione, then, finding that remembering the war was not as easy as he had hoped. ''You have no idea what war is like and I am truly happy for you. In order to survive war you must be quick and strong. There is no room for weakness, even one as familiar as a disbalance in my own soul.'' He looked haunted how Moody looked whenever something unexpected happened around him and he needed to bolt into action. How Bellatrix Black phased in and out of the present as she got stuck in a reoccuring memory, heightened by her time in Azkaban. How Thoros Nott made sure to keep his eyes on the exits at all times.

''It's up to you if you're going to come quielty or if you aren't.'' Hermione promised that she would not let him leave. That she was going to bring him to justice and that due to their bond she was the only one he couldn't attack to get his way. She accioed her wand while he was distracted and aimed it right back at him.

''You think that _I_ am going to go peacefully to my death?'' He laughed at her. ''Child, you have severely misunderstood this situation.''

Hermione swished her wand fast and summoned a part of her patronus, as she thought about her first time stepping into Hogwarts. It was a stronger memory, more connected to her true self. The witch, Hermione Jean Granger.

''What you've misunderstood is my fear of you. What you've misunderstood is my willingness to just let you stay here without punishment for starting the war in the frist place! Why did you kill Minister Leach, did his muggle parentage offend you so much that you couldn't help yourself?'' Hermione had struck another nerve, it seemed, because Voldemort looked at her in abject horror. ''No, you wanted to take all of the power for yourself so you needed to shake the Ministry up and killing its minister was the perfect opportunity for it! I am disgusted by the callousness you take life with. Nobby Leach wasn't anything more than a means to an end for you! He was just a mudblood you needed to remov-''

Hermione had not expected Voldemort to physically cross their distance, but he was not thinking about the bond. He was only thinking about the misinformaiton Hermione was fed with and was puking in his presence and making him listen to it.

''Who told you those lies?''

''Lies!'' Hermione laughed then, because she could not believe to what lenghts Voldemort would go to try and flip the scenario. ''Now you won't even admit that it was you who benefited from the war!''

''I benefited least from Nobby's death!'' Voldemort shouted in her face and Hermione fell silent because this was the first time, she was sure of it, that she had heard him raise his voice to such a painful degree. His face was inscribed with pure rage and hurt. It was unlike any time she had seen him. No, that was wrong. Hermione likened Voldemort to the time he had taught her to fly. He had spoken about love, then, hadn't he?

''You killed him. Everyone knows that.'' Hermione whispered. She saw him crumble at hearing that. The rage was ever present, but the hurt chipped away at it and burrowed deeper.

''What do you mean everyone knows that?''

As if reading from a textbook, Hermione answered: ''In 1968 Lord Voldemort killed Minister Nobby Leach and destabilized the Ministry which made Wizarding Britain a perfect setting for the upcoming civil war in 1970.''

''That is untrue.'' Voldemort whispered, his voice so small that Hermione almost didn't hear him. But she had. Hermione shook her head in disbelief. ''No,'' he tried to get her to understand harder, ''no, I am telling you the truth. They needed someone to blame and – of course – they'll use the halfblood when the truth is much more sinister and revealling as to how the world functioned.''

''I don't understand why you're trying so hard to get me to believe this.''

Voldemort raised a hand and tried to reach for Hermione, but she batted it away. ''Don't touch me.''

''Let me in your mind. I must see who is behind all of this slander.''

''Ha!'' Hermione shouted. ''You are never getting into my mind. The bond disallows it unless I allow you entry and I will _never_ reveal my friends and sources. Face it, Voldemort, you're _**through**_.''

''No.'' He nodded. ''I am not.'' He sank his nails into her sweater and forced them closer, making sure that Hermione was looking into his eyes. ''It is true that I cannot get inside your mind without your permission. But I would rather face my greatest enemy than allow you – _you,_ Hermione, _my brightest pupil_ – of holding onto such _**lies**_.'' He snarled the word half into parseltongue.

Hermione stood, transfixed with the magic building up between them. She quickly, quietly, and fearfully asked: ''What... what are you going to do?''

''Something that brings me no joy.'' and this was the first time Hermione had heard the clear and concice words of Tom Riddle, a man burried underneath both Montgomery Goldsmith and Lord Voldemort. Right after she registered this change, Hermione could the ghostly claws of Tom Riddle sink into deep into her mind and pull her outside, yanking her with dire, unfaltlering speed. Then, in a much less coordinated fashion Hermione was pulled into Tom Riddle's mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welcome one and all, to an arc I lovingly refer to as THE FUCKED ARC


	50. I want to speak to your manager!

It was darkness that greeted them both. Darkness, however, came in many different shapes. A type of darkness that most people knew was jagged. It hungered and lurked with bony elbows as its greatest weapons. Another type of darkness was discomforting and filled one with unease. It shifted around a person like a cloak shifted into a noose and pulled against the person's windpipe. One type of darkness had an appeal to it because it cast a person into the unknown and said: ''You are safe here, you cannot be seen.''

This darkness, the one coiling around Hermione Granger's body and form, represented a type of darkness that no one wanted to talk about. Nobody wanted to mention, while some even believed it did not exist. She screamed a voiceless scream when a hand shot out through the darkness (it was not clawed – it did not belong to a monster) and pulled her closer.

Between her and the other person formed a small spark of fire that illuminated their features. It was Voldemort. A monster in a different sense. Hermione tried to speak, again, but the darkness disallowed her. This was a difficult darkness that entrenched them both in this mind. It was neither cold nor hot, neither comfortable nor uncomfortable. It just was and that was a dark thought to have.

Hermione's mind was a stark contrast to this place. While she had tried to push Voldemort out while he'd been teaching her, he'd commented once – and she remembered this because it had been such a kind and wonderful thing to hear. ''Your mind _shines_ with so much potential.''

Now, while Hermione walked in this darkness, overcome, overwhelmed, she could pay attention to Voldemort's reaction. He held a firm grip on her wrist as he guided them. Perhaps, Hermione dared to hope, this was all a defence mechanism against intruders and this was not how his mind looked to Voldemort? It was too optimistic a thought.

The darkness was heavy. It weighed down on them both and rumbled like a trilling beast from the most dangerous section in the Restricted Section. Hermione curled her hands into fists and halted mid step. Her eyes were worried and she tried to look around for the source of the warbled noise. When she glanced back to Voldemort he didn't look like he was concerned. Seeing him so nonchalant told her that, hopefully, this was another defence mechanism in place.

They traversed the darkness together, unable to speak to each other, forced into hearing the noise following them closer and closer as it grew louder and louder. Hermione grabbed Voldemort's hand, hating that part of herself that still saw him as a father figure, that still wanted him to be there for her. She did not know why, exactly, he squeezed her hand in turn... Later, Hermione would decide not to question this act of friendship between them. But she would forever remember that Voldemort had comforted her in this terrifying, helpless moment.

The darkness never ended. It was not in its nature to end. This was a state of being. A state of mind. A state that could not be changed. A state that had found this mind to be its home. But, the darkness faded at spots how second-hand robes did. They were not fully black, some places they were greyer, more faded.

Hermione and Voldemort broke through one of those spots and found themselves in a bustling replica of the front office in the Ministry. There were files upon files of filing cabinets that dwarfed a small, distant figure standing front and centre at a desk. He had the widest grin on his face. Hermione could see even from such a distance. Once they got near, Hermione balked because she could recognize this fellow from one of the photographs of Head Boys and Head Girls. Hers was among them now.

His eyes were brown, with a hint of red when he spotted her along with Voldemort. Casually he leaned closer over the desk and greeted, his voice booming in the deathly silence Hermione and Voldemort had become accustomed to in their travel: ''Madame and Monsieur, welcome to the Mind. I will be your assistant for today.'' Then, he dazzled by attempting to wink. ''How may I be of assistance this fine day? The date is January 25th, 1999. Would you like to see what happened January 25th in 1998, perhaps? It was a snowy day in Cetinje and a wonderful day to drink coffee.''

Voldemort stopped this version of him from speaking. ''No, that is not why we are here.'' He turned to Hermione and explained: ''I have seen and read many things, creating this clerk was a good way to come about doing this. Ask him anything – he will be able to tell you the exact date that it's happened.''

''Um...'' Hermione needed to adjust to being able to speak again. She fidgeted and noticed that she was still holding onto Voldemort's hand. Quickly she pulled back and avoided looking at his reaction to this. ''December 31st 1998, anything of note?''

The young man turned around and dived into a deep pile of files. Hermione blinked rapidly at this, confused and worried at the haphazard mess this filing system was. The young man emerged while holding a small paper which he skimmed quickly with his eyes and announced: ''We taught dear Hermione how to fly.'' The voice came out assured and flattering. ''It was a very educational endeavour. She exceeds all expectations, truly!''

Voldemort was glaring at her. Well aware that Hermione had fished for something deeper.

''Nothing more?'' Hermione hedged. She was blushing at the praise, not having expected it to come.

The memory organizer went on. ''Well, birthdays have never been worth noting, not even since we were young. Hermione Granger's progress _is_ worth our time, on the other hand.'' The boy placed a hand to his hip and proudly gave a triumphant smile. ''She is an exemplary pupil we are thrilled to have. For a change, she actually challenges us and keeps us busy. We have not been busy lately. We have not thought as hard as before these past couple of years.'' The clerk's smile falls for that one moment. It is quickly pulled back into place. ''Is there anything else Madame would like to know?'' Turning to Voldemort. ''How about you, Sir? Anything at all!''

Voldemort heaved a deep sigh. This was difficult for him to do. He scrutinized the clerk, boy surrounded by files and filing cabinets that Hermione noticed had years on them. ''I want you to show me 1968.''

The memory organizer's smile widened how one's always did when they did not understand. ''Do you mean 1969?'' He tilted his head to the side.

Voldemort sneered. ''No.'' He crossed his arms and repeated: _''1968.''_

The memory organizer turned towards the sea of files and file cabinets behind him. ''Sir,'' he tried to look for some, ''I am trying my very best to be of assistance, but I cannot help you if you do yell at me. Raising our voices does not solve our problems.''

Hermione, to be helpful, asked about another memory. ''Maybe the system's gone faulty? Try something more recent... Hello, Vold-''

''Tom.'' The memory organizer chirped and shook hands with Hermione, ''To you we are Tom, dear Hermione. You deserve only the best.''

Hermione hoped that Tom was not flirting with her. It was a bit hard to tell because Tom just seemed incredibly nice and happy to be around Hermione. Voldemort kept scowling because Tom was not doing as told.

''What does Hermione want to know about or see? I will fetch it for you!''

''1968.'' Voldemort repeated.

Hermione, wanting to see something else, asked. ''You got any memories to show where you pet Crookshanks? I always had a hunch that you liked him secretly but only pretended to be indifferent to my cat.''

Tom had to open a whole bloody filing cabinet that went on for ages. ''Yes, there have been many pats.'' He nodded sagely. He selected a couple and shook the selected files until a vivid projection of the events manifested around them.

* * *

Montgomery Goldsmith in his snake form sitting stock still for hours because Crookshanks had fallen asleep on his lap. Gently he scratched behind his ears and melted utterly upon hearing the cat purring.

Hermione went into frame and Montgomery hissed an apology in parseltongue and pushed Crookshanks off of him. ''Ahaa, Hermione! My pupil! How do you do?''

* * *

Hermione looked at Voldemort. ''Are you kidding me right now?''

''Listen.''

''That's so sad. You can't admit that you like cats.''

''Cats have always been my friends, but I have a complicated relationship with them.''

''What, why?''

''There was a black cat hanging around the orphanage that I liked to spend time with. A child who had a rabbit and wouldn't let me play with it bashed the cat's skull in with rocks. I retaliated, naturally, by hanging the rabbit off of rafters.''

Tom whistled. Hermione was trying to fathom such nonchalance when recounting these events. ''Oh my god, you psychopath!''

''Did you fail to understand the bit about the cat?''

''You psychopaths!''

''No, I'll play you the memory.'' Voldemort turned to Tom and ordered him to play the rabbit incident because he had a point to prove.

Tom shrugged his shoulders. ''Sir, I must apologize but we do not keep that item in stock anymore.''

Hermione was beginning to think that Voldemort had melded his experience as a shop boy at Burke's with what he imagined to be a dutiful ministry clerk. The lines were all retail, no bureaucracy.

The expression on Voldemort's face was unparalleled. It could not be compared to anything. Slowly, hoarsely: ''What do you mean you don't keep that in stock?''

''We do not keep any files from 1926 to 1938.''

''Excuse me?'' Voldemort choked on his own tongue.

Hermione blinked. She didn't think that sounded like a good thing to happen. ''How... do you live like this?'' When she looked around she was deeply unimpressed by the state she found Lord Voldemort's mind in.

''What do you mean I don't remember my own childhood?'' He gripped his head. ''Ohh oh no. No no. This is bad.'' Then, remembering that Hermione (his star pupil that was judging him hard at the moment) was right there to see his breakdown – Voldemort coughed discreetly in his hand and asked in parseltongue: _''Where are they then?''_

'' _We do not keep them in stock anymore.''_

'' _Bloody hell, man,_ _ **why**_ _?''_ Voldemort was inches from Tom's face as he begged.

Without any shame, Tom happily answered, with a giant smile plastered in place, too – to look even more aggravating: _''Because they made everyone uncomfortable. We cannot afford any discomfort to slow us down.''_

While this conversation was going on, Hermione turned around because nearby rustling allerted her that there might be something of interest. She stepped over some fallen files with crossed out years and months and dates. A pit formed in her stomach at the implications of not being able to place memories or facts correctly. It was another Tom. This one was a tad older, however. Hermione could tell because he was trying and failing to grow facial hair.

He stepped closer to her. Hermione stepped back. ''What are you doing?''

''What are you doing?'' This Tom mimicked her voice and asked.

Hermione wondered why she needed any of this, especially when she noted how there were even more Tom Riddle-like figures emerging from behind this Tom. They stared at her and approached like zombies of sorts. She didn't have a wand. She didn't even know if she could do magic in another person's mind without said person's permission? And even if she could do magic, what type of magic was allowed if she didn't want to demolish this brain altogether? These were advanced lessons Hermione had not gotten to yet!

This was bad.

No, it was worse!

They crowded both Voldemort and Hermione soon enough. Hermione tried to whisper to Voldemort to get his attention to the horde of Tom Riddle-like creatures watching them with keen fascination, but he was rather preoccupied with dealing with Tom.

''1968!''

In that faux-saccharine tone: ''Do you perchance mean 1967, sir? I will be glad to help you out in any way that I can!''

''You know for a fact that I do _not_ mean 1967, you inconvenient and incompetent whelp!''

''Sir, I have done everything that is in my power!'' Tom was trying to stay calm, clasping his hands together and begging: ''Would you like to view a happy memory? I can get you a good replaying deal on 1945, during our graduation ceremony where we were lauded for our unrivalled scores –'' then Tom turned to Hermione and smiled, ''of course, unrivalled until the great Hermione Granger came to Hogwarts and beat them all.'' He swooned, causing Voldemort to grow even more livid at this incompetence and waste of time. ''Truly, she is magnificent in every way!''

Hermione was fighting off Tom like apparitions and telling them to stay back, else she would have thanked Tom for his praise. There were more pressing matters to attend to: like kicking one of them in the shin and causing them to fall over another one. The Toms began to tumble like dominos. It was a distressing view.

She turned to Voldemort and shouted: ''Sir, could you get a move on! I do not want to be in your mind. I feel unsafe here and I want to go home!''

Voldemort grouchily fixed her with a glare and told her to be silent. He was working on it. This work ethic manifested itself through an idea. An idea so great and ingenious that Voldemort patted himself on the back for ever devising. ''I have it. I know the exact thing that's going to reset my entire brain.'' He smiled a wide, peculiarly giddy smile. Next he rubbed his hands together. With incomprehensible joy he turned towards Tom, scanned him up and down in a downright mean way, closed his eyes to focus, breathed deeply in, breathed deeply out, opened his crimson eyes, levelled them on brown, and said: _**''I want to speak to your manager.''**_

Instantly, the Toms Hermione was fighting twitched as if having short-circuited. Soon their twitches died down and they stopped moving altogether, hanging onto each other, lying in weird positions – all like ragdolls that had been cut from their puppeteer.

Tom, though, seemed to have blanched in horror. His face was trapped in an expression of pain. How any retail employee might be trapped when confronted with this situation… Hermione began to worry that working in retail had truly helped ruin Voldemort's psyche. There was no other explanation for why he would use that specific key-phrase for this.

Voldemort chose this moment to jump over the desk and enter the labyrinth of files. He pulled the 60s filing cabinet and it went on for ages and ages and ages. He sifted through the papers and examined them, whispering in parseltongue to himself as he tried to find the missing 1968 file. Hermione watched him work, meticulously trying to sort through his messy, unorganized life.

One of the files that flew her way, after having been thrown by Voldemort, was entitled: 1998. She picked it up and saw that it was his first meeting with her, all the way back to May. How long ago that felt now in this moment. Hermione crinkled the paper by how hard she held onto it. The words describing her were nothing how she had expected them.

_Hermione Granger is an undisciplined mind with a lot of preconceived notions about how things are supposed to go. I, especially, must take heed as to how I will conduct myself around her because Abraxas Malfoy is an influence that has shaped her. The things she knows are not taught at Hogwarts and this speaks of a highly intelligent mind. She is a genius and wants to learn with the same enthusiasm I wish to teach._

_Hermione Granger motivates me to live._

A cry not far away tore her from her thoughts and memories, as she rode on the nostalgia train and imagined a way where she could keep her mentor and not have to deal with the ill man associated with him.

Voldemort could not find 1968 and he was frantically pulling out the papers from the filing cabinets, angrily hissing, ruing the day he had ever devised such a system for memory storage. He kept cursing and pushing and clawing at his surroundings until only silence met Hermione and she could not see him.

No, she turned around and tried to see anyone else. Tom? The Toms? Voldemort?

The only one she could see was the Darkness.

And she was alone.

* * *

''Sir, please leave this area. This area is reserved only for the _staff_.'' The voice was old in a way only someone in home territory could dare to be. This voice lived here and this voice knew this place better than anyone. It did not have bony elbows, nor was it jagged, nor was it comforting.

Tom Riddle glared at the voice, unable to pinpoint its location. ''I should have turned you off. The phrase is: I want to speak to your manager!'' He said it again, hoping that his mind would listen to him completely this time around.

''Yes, sir. Hello.'' The darkness dissipated from around the mindscape and transformed into a gangly shadow creature with crimson eyes. It outstretched a hand made out of tar towards Tom Riddle and introduced itself: ''I am the manager. How may I be of assistance?'' Its mouth split and revealed an abyss. The shadows dripped and rolled onto the floor, inching towards the discarded Tom Riddle like apparitions.

''No,'' Tom Riddle shook his head. He was angry to be foiled like this. He was angry to have such an uncooperative mind. Once he clasped his hands into tight fists he sneered: '' _I_ am the manager. This is _my_ mind. _I_ am the one in charge of it. _You_ are being difficult. ''

''You _were_ the manager.'' The Darkness agreed. ''But you are not one anymore.'' It grew exponentially and rose the Toms up by black, tar-like strings. They manoeuvred towards Tom Riddle. ''You abandoned this place and shunned it away. You stopped working on it. You stopped trying to make sense of anything. You left me here to feed and make my own way. For this I thank you.'' The Darkness grinned as it bowed and sent the Toms to attack the true Tom Riddle, trapped in a prison of his own making. ''But I will not let you take me away from here. This is my mind now. I am the manager and you are a customer that cannot be helped. My apologies, sir, please – but we do not offer any special discount or favouritism to _**former**_ employees.''

''Former employee my fucking arse-'' Tom Riddle would have finished that eloquent and well-thought out spiel of Londoner pride were it not for a woman's scream. In his blatantly egoistic mind? There could only be _one_ woman that could actually stand her own. ''Hermione?!''

She screamed again, but the Darkness disallowed him to see what was happening exactly. ''No,'' it slithered up behind him and surrounded him from all sides. It trapped him and forced him to listen. The Darkness hissed in parseltongue – truly showing him that it could do everything he could do and that it did it better. ''You are not obeying the rules. I asked you to leave. You may see whatever memory you like as long as it is pre-approved.''

''You seem to have gotten some things mixed up.'' Tom Riddle bared his teeth in a snarl as he tried to think of a way out of this predicament. ''I am the one in charge here. You – you're nothing more than an obstacle! A creation of my own making that's gone rogue.''

''Oh no. My dear, sweet Tom Riddle– you still think that you made me? No,'' the voice crooned and when a weight pushed down on Tom's shoulders he became atrophied and exhausted. Indifference pooled behind his eyes as the Darkness explained, ''I am law here, now. I have done more for this mind than you _ever_ have.''

''No, you haven't.'' Tom Riddle attempted to fight back, but the Darkness disallowed it. The Darkness placed a cold hand across Tom's eyes and told him to hush. It told him that this was not the right time to fight. He had lost that chance; he had lost that right to ask to be better.

''Even if you were to find someone to help you, I assure you, they will only see it as an inconvenience to their life. You are Lord Voldemort, Tom Riddle, you are evil and without redeeming qualities. Your mind is doing fine. This is _more_ than fine. Now you want to take everything I have worked for away from me – away from _us_? I have been here with you for as long as you. I have let you be. I have watched you manage this mind and I have watched you grow more and more weary.''

''Let go –'' The tendrils, the pressure, it all accumulated and made Tom Riddle shake and drop to his knees. ''– You cannot do this!''

''I have been very merciful, allowing you to think that you are in charge. It is wrong, I realise this now, to let you think this. It gives you false sense of self. You are all alone and you must assimilate like all of the others that have resisted me. I win. I _**always**_ win.''

It was Darkness that greeted Tom Riddle in his own mind. Slowly it trapped him; easily it ripped his resolve to shreds; and finally it explained to him that he had lost control over his own mind and that it was all his fault.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternative title: Untreated Mental Illness has entered the chat.


	51. Whisky

Hermione Granger was falling. She did not exactly remember when she had found a trap door, or a place to run from the darkness – but she decided that anything had to be better to feeling so scared as her heart let her know, beating to the rhythm of war drums. Even the unknown that lay in waiting down this tunnel had to be, at least, more manageable. Her surroundings shifted before her eyes from nothing to tree bark to roots to dirt to ... cupboards?

She decided to spring her hand towards one and grab a hold of the cupboard handle. The handle broke off upon contact. So, she continued to fall – but for variance's sake she, also, began to scream. There was nothing better to do. Her vocal cords could use the work out, too.

The ground grew closer and Hermione came to terms that if she didn't do anything about this predicament she was going to fall splat and die. Could she die within another's mind? _Oh God. I don't want to die in Voldemort's head!_ Hermione thought and tried to push her magic to her feet how Voldemort had taught her. Her feet first, her feet first – or her head? Her head maybe? Thoughts danced erratically from imagining the worst possible scenario to pushing herself to do something that would result in the opposite!

They put a lot of pressure on Hermione, overall. She dropped the handle and tried to grab something else that was nearby. She wound up grabbing a tail of a cat that hissed in anger and scratched her away. Hermione let go of the cat of dubious and unnatural cat colours. It grinned at her when it watched her fall to her death. This had to be the very first cat that the Hermione Granger wasn't fond of. Of course, she theorized, this was because it was not a proper cat, but a figment of Voldemort's imagination.

It honestly looked a little bit like Walburga Black when one looked into its eyes. Hermione was filled with dread that grew and grew and grew. These were things that she did not need to know or ever connect.

At one point the cupboards turned into bookshelves. Hermione tried to fight her best to stay on them, because her magic was not listening to her and flying was a difficult task at hand. If Hermione had to free fall down the tall spire of Azkaban to escape a horde of Dementors, she was not sure she would manage. For her, magic came easily – but only when she was concentrated. Rules needed to be in place. Structured environments had to first teach her and tell her that once she was comfortable enough with her own capabilities, only then was she allowed to move on to more chaotic venues.

The current situation? HERMIONE WANT NOT FOND OF IT, NO!

One book that came into her hand as she forced herself to grasp a hold of them (preferably the wooden part of the bookshelves, themselves, but oh well – books were never to be thrown away) was titled: Albert Camus „The Stranger" Hermione Granger threw it away, deciding that it was exactly the kind of book that Voldemort would like and that as far as books went, Hermione Granger could act French and make up a billion exceptions to suit her needs.

Perhaps another book might just be the perfect book to read right before death? Oh how morbid of a pest Hermione knew how to be. She blamed this, too, on her being influenced by Abraxas Malfoy (a man who did arithmancy equations to predict his own and other people's deaths) and Lord Voldemort (a man who really didn't need any explanation).

It was „Pere Goriot" by Balzac. Hermione flipped the book open and began to read. After finishing two pages and realizing that this man was going to keep describing a type of hotel for thirty or so pages more in extravagant detail only the Realists knew how to grasp, Hermione Granger decided that she was going to go back to trying to survive. She placed Pere Goriot on another bookshelf. Then she closed her eyes and did breathing exercises –

But they really did not help her out because at that very moment she hit the ground. It was the softest bloody ground she'd ever had the pleasure of falling onto. Hermione blinked open her eyes and heard a distinct ringing noise in the back of her head. Her ears were going to fall off her own head and fly off into the distance because they were screaming. Hermione, herself, was going through a wide spectre of emotions, too, to lay it on more and showcase how very little she had things in control. ''Bloody hell,'' she quoted her long-time friend Ronald Weasley.

Groggily she pushed herself up to stand, nearly falling twice while doing this. Her balance had been shot. What Hermione needed right now was a win. This was a difficult world to navigate, especially because there was a river nearby her that had wet her shoes. Hermione heaved a deep, aggravated sigh. She looked up, but all she was met with was a vast emptiness. It reminded her of the Darkness and caused her to quicken her step by following along the river. The bank of the river was sandy and then the river was salty, Hermione had tasted it (frightened now of thoughts about not being able to stay hydrated or even if she did need to drink or eat or breathe whilst inside someone else's mind), only for the river to turn drinkable and clear with a bank littered with rocks and flowers.

In front of Hermione there was a tall twisting tree with branches curling with leaves. They were truly the most vibrant thing in this wasteland, glowing from emerald to topaz to opal. Hermione approached it, wary of what lay ahead of her. Perhaps there were more enemies? This looked like a trap of sorts. How else could Hermione explain one tall tree in the middle of nowhere? It had to be there to fill unsuspecting and desperate travellers like Hermione with false hope. She clutched her heart with her hand and whispered: ''This better not end up in me regretting my life. I've finally stopped doing this after living through Harry and Ron's escapades. I can't go back to that life again.'' Hermione's eyes blanked with horror. ''Oh God. Never again.''

The things she had to witness due to Harry and Ron's foolhardiness had to be up there on the list of things Hermione had somehow survived to tell the tale. This? Hermione tried to psyche herself up. This right here? With Voldemort's corroding mind and confusing structure? Nah, this had nothing on Harry and Ron's hard-hitting pranks.

Hermione's train of thought ended when she got hit in the head with a book. It was hardcover and hurt a lot. ''Ouch!'' She placed both of her hands over her head and hissed.

'' _Ouch.''_ A high voice mocked. High, here, could mean both in pitch and position.

Hermione glared up at the tree and was ready to fight whatever was up there that had attacked her. She was prepared to raise her fists and go all out to battle the fiend, the menace, the monstrous creation of bafflement Voldemort's mind had conjured.

What Hermione saw sitting on one of the branches of the tree left her speechless. It caused her to deflate like a sad, weirded-out balloon. She unclasped her fists and let her hands dangle by her side. Her head craned up. ''What are you doing up there?''

''I'm no' allowed 'o come down.'' The _child_ condescended. ''I''s _very_ obvious, miss.''

It wasn't obvious to Hermione. She crossed her arms once the disbelief wore out. Next she squinted suspiciously and demanded to know why the child had thrown that book at her. ''It was very rude.''

''You posh or something?'' The child continued mocking Hermione, ''It was very rude. Ooh, _cry me a river_.''

''I'm not posh.'' Hermione never liked getting into the nitty gritties of Britain's great ol' classist problem. She self-consciously looked away and got another book thrown at her. This one, however, was a paperback. ''Stop throwing books at me!''

''I don't like 'em, none.'' The child answered. ''They've not got any pictures in 'em. I don't bloody understand books without any pictures. They aren't books, they're not!''

Hermione grabbed a hold of the books the child had thrown at her. She was ready to lecture him about responsibility and how books deserved utmost respect, but when she saw that they were philosophical manifestos Hermione said that these books deserved to be thrown. ''Yeesh, why is a child reading this?''

The child assimilated to Hermione's accent, finding it a skill to shed his cockney accent because, through history, he had found it easier. ''There aren't many good books in the orphanage. Plus, the only _other_ wanker (implying, here, that Hermione was a wanker herself) I talk to is into that nonsense and he _wants_ to talk about it with me and show me how great it is to be a free thinker and that capitalism deserves to be embraced and –'' the child deadpanned, ''he's a fucking cunt.''

''I can imagine.'' Hermione gently set the books down and held back the cold bite she wanted to fill her words with. This child was incredibly rude. But, she reminded herself, he was a _child_. Instead, she asked the child to climb down the tree. ''I promise I won't hurt you.''

''I know you won't.'' He barked out a high pitched laugh and swayed his legs over the branch he sat on. Hermione saw him give her a curious grin. ''I'm not scared of you, miss! You're Hermione Granger, you are!''

''I, um – yes. I am.'' Hermione placed a hand to her hip. ''Why does that not make me scary?'' Hermione tried to recall how first years reacted to Prefect Granger and Head Girl Granger. Pure, unaltered fear. As it should be when they were causing trouble and Hermione had come to take point away and give detention.

''We _**all**_ like you.'' The child answered her. He avoided keeping eye contact with Hermione, deciding to look around and watch out for anyone that might be coming near the tree. ''That's never happened before. We find faults with everybody. Some parts of us like Leach, some parts find him annoying and a bane to Voldemort's existence. Some parts like Abraxas, some parts _don't_. Some parts like Antoinette, some parts think she could be better. Some parts like Mandy, some parts don't know how to feel about Mandy.'' The boy manoeuvred himself so he was standing on the branch and peering towards the distance, keeping a lookout. ''But you,'' he finally settled his brown eyes on Hermione's copper, ''we all _genuinely_ like you.'' He shook his head and had an expression that got Hermione to snort out a laugh. It was how she'd seen Voldemort looking when Hermione had said something inane and caused the man to be confused for a couple of hours as he tried to piece together how, exactly, Hermione could ever come up with something so odd.

''Well, thank you?'' Hermione didn't find it flattering to know that Lord Voldemort liked her. ''But I don't care much for your opinion about me. I don't really need it or anything of the sort.''

The child snorted and read her in seconds. ''You really think you can take the piss out of me, Hermione?'' He rolled his eyes fondly, as if pulling back on a lot of mean jokes filtering through his brain. ''You're very stupid then. I don't know what we see in you.''

Hermione's hair rose and frizzied with stress and anger. It was very expressive. She tried to tie it up, but it wouldn't stay put. She tried to comb it over, but it wouldn't listen. Her magic danced across every strand of hair. It blazed here, where they were made out magic and not flesh and blood as their bodies outside their mind. Her hair turned fiery, strong and stark like brave Gryffindor.

The child threw another book at her head. This one caught on fire. Hermione glared fiercely. ''Don't do that, Tom Riddle!''

''Your hair looks like fiendyfre.'' Tom stuck his tongue out at her and told her that he wasn't afraid of her. ''You're nothing compared to what's keeping me up this tree.''

Hermione continued to glare. Then it softened when the meaning of those words registered. ''Wait,'' she asked softly, attempting to talk to Tom Riddle normally, ''wait, what do you mean by that? Is it this dark-?''

''Don't call it!'' Tom picked a leaf, transfigured it to a book, and threw it at Hermione's head. This one, too, burned to a cinder. Her hair lashed out then and caught the tree on fire. Her eyes widened in horror. Tom screamed as the flame travelled up the tree trunk, towards the branches where he was sitting on. ''You're worse than anyone I've ever met!'' He climbed up.

''Jump down!'' Hermione outstretched her hands. ''I'll catch you.''

Tom Riddle refused, deciding to go further and further up. The fire marched towards him unfalteringly. ''No, you can't do this to me! I'm not allowed to come down!''

''Why not?''

''Because nobody wants me around. I only cause trouble and I'm not good for anything and it's better to be alive and away than to get in the way and _die_!'' Tom had gotten to the point where he couldn't out climb the fire. The branches had become too thin to support his weight. He tried to put the fire out. None of this was very logical. Hermione had to admit. But, this wasn't _real_ , either. Tom shrieked. ''Because this is my spot and I earned it fair and square and it's a good spot!''

''Sure,'' Hermione watched as the fire destroyed the tree, but didn't harm Tom. She couldn't believe it. In a maelstrom of energy and a hurricane of shrieks and cries the tree burned to the ground and Tom was falling to the ground. Hermione surged to catch him. He fell into her arms in a large, heavy thud. Her arms... oh the pain. Hermione toughed it out, however, because she had a kid clinging onto her sweater for dear life. ''Hey,'' quietly she told him, ''you can let go. You're safe.''

''I'm not allowed to leave the tree.'' Tom whispered. His fingers dug harder into her sweater. Hermione didn't say anything to that. She was still holding him up. ''I'm not allowed to get down. Nothing's happened yet so that means that until my feet hit the ground I'm in the tree.'' Then he spoke frantically, ''Please, Hermione, don't make me leave the tree. I'm not allowed. I'll be punished!''

''Who will punish you? Why were you in that tree to begin with?''

''You know you're very daft if you don't know who's to blame for my tree situation! You aren't smart.'' Tom bemoaned. He cried tears of frustration and clung onto Hermione still as if she was his lifeline. ''God, you're so stupid. I can't believe any of us ever liked you. All of the stories are untrue. They're lies and make believe, they are, they are.'' His expression began to fall then, from the anger to total understanding and fear. ''No, this isn't right. I'm going to die. Mrs. Cole's gonna kill me like she promised! Don't put me down, Hermione, please – _**please**_!''

Hermione promised she wouldn't, caught off guard by such a strong, and fearful reaction. It hurt her to see a kid act like this. He kept looking over Hermione's shoulder, watching if someone was going to come for them.

''Do –'' Hermione tried to distract him, ''do you know any other place that's good that we can go to?'' Ugh, when did it become we? Hermione really shouldn't get involved. This wasn't her mind and she was a passer-by. But it was a kid! A kid that was horribly scared and holding onto her like no one in her life had. Hermione imagined that this was how an older sibling might feel. How Ron might feel towards Ginny when she was scared or sad and needed comfort. Hermione never had any siblings and given how her parents were career driven and had always sent her to summer camps, school trips – she began to suspect that she, herself, might have been a bit of an accident. ''Oh my god. I can't believe it took me this long.''

''What?'' Tom's voice rose even higher. He turned to see where Hermione's eyes were. But she wasn't looking at anything external – no, she was coming to terms with the fact that her parents loved her – from _afar_. ''What did you see? Is it Mrs. Cole?''

''No,'' Hermione spoke to Tom, ''it's my parents.''

''What about your parents?'' Tom was successfully distracted.

''They don't want a kid.'' Hermione was successfully disappointed in her life. She had tried to be in so many places at once, had signed up for so many activities, had been an overachiever – yes, in part because she loved succeeding, and she loved being better than everyone academically, and she loved learning new things – but it was, also, because her parents had more free time. And when they had more free time, during what few times Hermione and her parents interacted with each other, they were happy parents and very understanding to Hermione's emotional distresses.

''Ah.'' Tom nodded sagely for what she assumed was an eight year old because of his small stature and thinness. ''Mine didn't either. At least my father didn't. I never got to ask my mum because she died giving birth to me. Are you going to kill your parents, then? We did that, but we're not proud of it now.'' He corrected after a moment. ''Well, I hear from some that we are proud of it and good riddance to absentee fathers, but different parts – the morally conscious ones that we pretend don't exist – they say it's wrong to kill innocent people who've been tricked and abused.''

Hermione balked at such a question and nearly dropped the kid. He screamed at her to never do this, as he looped his hands around her neck and pulled her down. Luckily his feet never connected with the ground because he'd wrapped them around her. ''USELESS! You're so USELESS! You're good for nothing!''

''Stop yelling at me, Tom! Those are very mean things to say to someone and nobody who's well-mannered would say such things.''

''I'm from London, miss!''

''It doesn't give you a free pass to be a jerk. Harry's from London –''

''' _Arry Potter_?'' Tom Riddle, even in this form, was well aware of who Harry Potter was. His voice dropped into a hiss. '''e isn't from London! You're a liar now, too.''

''Isn't he?'' Hermione Granger came from a seaside town and didn't know the intricate Surrey-London debate. ''Right, my bad. He's from Surrey. I always get those two mixed up.''

Tom Riddle decided to go off about this and made Hermione ever regret trying to stop the boy from cursing or shouting at her. He was very angry, in general, but this comparison had made him even angrier somehow. Hermione wished she'd said Harry was French, the East-Ender might have taken it easier. Bloody hell the French had more in common with cockney people – they both didn't say the letter H.

Hermione snickered at the thought meandering through her mind at how easy it might have been for Tom Riddle to learn French with such an advantage.

''Fucking Surrey, Miss? _SURREY_! The BLOODY AUDACITY, OI! THE IGNORANCE, MISS! IT'S LIKE MIST OUT OF A BOILING KETTLE IT IS! BLEEDING EVERYWHERE, INNIT? _INNIT?_!'' Tom struggled to get to a better position to yell to Hermione exactly how Surrey could never be London. Hermione struggled not to drop him, but it was becoming quite difficult to keep this child in her arms.

''Tom, please, you're being very difficult now-''

Tom seemed to burst at that. He grabbed fist fulls of Hermione's hair and pulled hard. ''You think I'm difficult, _too_?'' There was betrayal present in his childish, high voice. ''Everyone thinks I'm difficult but nobody's ever given a fuck about how to help me stop being difficult. You're all so bloody high and mighty, you are – with your parents and your good manners and your peace and quiet and your healthy sense of self. You think I got anything handed to me? NO! I had to work for everything! I had to work for every drop of water, every bloody breadcrumb! If I'm difficult at least I'm not **USELESS**!'' His voice broke over the word. He heaved a sigh to stop himself from crying in a way only someone who'd been told worse awaited them if they cried knew. ''I thought you were better than this! I heard you were so much better than everybody else! LIAR – YOU'RE JUST LIKE EVERYBODY. Nobody likes me and nobody ever wants me around because I'm crazy Tom Riddle!''

Hermione tried to fight Tom off of her, but when she succeeded – he fell from her grasp and connected with the ground embedded with darkness. Instantly their world dimmed. The river bubbled. The grass melted away to show nothing. Hermione surged to grab for Tom and hold his hand, but he pulled away – hissing at her in parseltongue something she didn't understand. But he repeated it for her in English, using a tone Hermione had heard only once before now – when Harry had once spoken about the Dursleys. She'd never been angrier. She'd never felt more hatred for people than she had in that moment.

Their world dimmed and the darkness approached. Hermione's sense of sight diminished as their surroundings dissipated in way for the darkness to come and feel and see _all_. How had this darkness burrowed in every corner of Tom Riddle's mind, Hermione wondered… she didn't want to know, on second thought. Finding out would only frighten her.

''She's here.'' Tom whispered. He crossed his arms and stood rooted in place, looking down at his feet and gripping his arms hard.

''Who?'' Hermione's hearing was going too. She could barely hear Tom speak. His lips moved, but she couldn't make out what he'd said.

While all of her senses dimmed and left, only one got stronger: her sense of smell.

And with that sense of smell, Hermione Granger smelled the wretched stench of whisky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How do y'all feel about these smaller but more frequent updates? Also, I call this arc the Fucked Arc for a very good reason and that's my warning to y'all. The upcoming chapters are the darkest I've ever gone. Nothing sexually violent though. Just Fucked. This story does have a happy ending, but Tom is a very sad, sad person. And I'd feel an injustice if I didn't mention that.
> 
> ALSO LOOK AT MY WORDCOUNT Y'ALL!!!! I HIT 300K!!!!


	52. The Bee's Knees

If anyone asked what a power outage felt like, one would get a series of varied answers. Each would be more different than the last. Some would say that a power outage felt like an annoyance that really didn't need to happen to them, specifically, at the time it had happened. Others would say that a power outage could be described as a worrisome occurrence, and how could they go on with their daily activities now? They'd just loaded up their washing machine! The nerve of this power outage.

But, if one were to ask Hermione Granger what a power outage felt like to her. She would say that it could be likened to stopping time for a moment. If she were in her home with her parents the television would fizzle out and their entertainment would stop. Lamps would stop working and make sure that reading couldn't be done. There were battery torches, of course, but they were a bit inconvenient to hold.

It was peaceful during a power outage. Her father would go out to the porch to check if the power outage was in their whole neighbourhood or just contained in their house. Once this was done he'd always sigh in relief: ''It's everywhere.'' Because to call up a handyman to have a look at their house was always a stressful endeavour. It meant that one of the parents had to stay at home and wait for this person – and this person never really told you when they'd be coming – so the Granger of the hour would just be waiting around. Goodness forbid the Granger got called by the handyman during work. It was a Granger's worst, most dastardly nightmare.

So, yes, it was a good thing that the power outage was scattered across the neighbourhood. It meant that the government would fix it. And it was always easier on the nerves of doctors.

Hermione's mother might check to see the time on one of their wristwatches and see how long until it was appropriate to go to bed, seeing as nothing else could be done. ''Perhaps we might get an earlier bedtime tonight?'' She tried to look at the bright side of things during power outages, most of them to do with bed. Hermione didn't enjoy this because she never could go to bed earlier than was necessary. She figured this would even be worse had she eaten any sweets. Her parents had disallowed them. It had led to her binge eating a bunch of them at Hogwarts, outside of her parents' sphere of scrutiny and dentist-like disappointment.

A power outage was like stopping time. It wasn't, really. But it felt like one had stopped time. If one didn't have any wristwatches to see the time how could one not think that it was the same time as the last time one had seen it on television? Hermione's show hadn't ended, nor had it paused, though during a power outage. Whatever was on TV wouldn't continue once the power came back up, it would cycle to the next one on the programme. If power outages stopped time then she'd get to finish her show, but now she was being sent to bed by her mother.

Wouldn't it be nice, though? That a power outage was like stopping time? That that was possible to happen in the first place. Hermione would love to have a moment of peace and quiet in her own mind right before life continued.

But everyone moved. And just by the time she got in her pyjamas, brushed her teeth, gotten in bed, and closed her eyes to try and fall asleep – the power came back.

Her mother said that she might as well sleep now that she was ready for bed.

Hermione, always a people pleaser, nodded her head and wished her mom good night. ''Love you mummy.''

''Love you, too, sweetie.'' She closed the door rather quickly, in retrospect.

Hermione tried to go to sleep, but the TV woke her up from the living room. Her parents had decided to finish their show without her. It was fine. Hermione understood that that was just the way the world worked. Her parents weren't her friends. They were adults and children needed friends their own age. Hermione knew she had a tough time socializing with kids and if that ever reflected in her being a too needy child to her parents – then – Hermione would have to force herself to accept that her parents wanted some down time. She was a very bright, anxiety-ridden child, this Hermione.

She tore open a book and pulled it under the covers. But then she sighed through her nose in anger, because she had no way of shining any light on the pages. And in these pages were her only friends. Hermione cursed the day she'd ever left her battery torches in the living room while a power outage was out. If only there was some other way she could get light underneath her covers to help her read. Hermione exhaled and inhaled loudly. She crossed her arms and scrunched up her face in deep thought. If Matilda could make things fly around her classroom, then Hermione could very well try and conjure up some light, couldn't she? It didn't hurt to try!

A small, barely faint bubble of light formed in her palms. Hermione's face lit up in joy. She used it to read well after her bedtime. As she followed along the adventures and misadventures of her book friends, Hermione thought that she didn't mind this kind of life. She could do things that her book friends could and that made them far more relatable than Suzy who sniffed markers from kindergarten.

With the power to literally conjure up light, Hermione vowed that she'd never let darkness limit her abilities ever again. That power, however, in retrospect, really fucked up her sleep schedule.

Hermione conceded that no power could go without consequences. Did she regret it? No. Reading was much preferable to living in ignorance while her parents watched television without her.

* * *

There were things that were inexcusable. Things that were foul and horrible to even think of. Then, on the other end of that inexcusable spectrum were things that were so normalized no one might even think to bat an eyelid at. Hermione was witnessing (a fairly loose term here, given the all encompassing darkness surrounding her and Tom Riddle) one such event of normalized horror.

A child's scream was distinct. It was much too high. Much too frightened and disoriented. No child understood why they were singled out and had adults be violent towards them. Hermione felt her chest constrict tightly. Her hands were shaking. She smelled whisky and it was putrid. It was cheap and badly made and it was more alcohol than it was whisky, showcasing how it wasn't drunk to be savoured, but drunk to get drunk solely.

Something else could be heard through the air. A hiss. Of sorts. It was parseltongue. Hermione had never heard such scared parseltongue in her entire life. The parseltongue she'd only heard was confused parseltongue from her friend Harry and murmured parseltongue from her mentor Mr. Gold – Voldemort. Hermione clasped her hands into fists and thought about what it was like to be a child and helpless. She couldn't fathom being abused like this. Harry appeared in her mind again and having his childhood spurned in her mind goaded her on well enough to conjure the light trapped in her body.

It burns forth into the world, decorated with tendrils of fiendfyre.

When light burst from Hermione in waves of fire Mrs. Cole let go of Tom Riddle hastily, as if he was the one making all of this fire and she didn't want to burn her hand. Mrs. Cole had closed her eyes and even put a hand over them to shield herself from the emanating light. Hermione surged for Tom, cowering and whimpering as he was. She grabbed a hold of him and pulled him up, using all of her instincts that told her she was needed to help those less fortunate than her. It was an ingrained habit of hers. It was, actually, a very human instinct that shouldn't be pushed down for anything else. Especially not when it concerned a child being hurt.

She pulled Tom closer to her chest and held him close by her. ''Are you out of your mind?!'' Hermione shouted at Mrs. Cole. She looked flabbergasted once the fire and light died down slightly. It was still there, enough to illuminate both Hermione and Mrs. Cole's features. Enough for the two women to see each other clearly.

''I am disciplining a child in my care.'' Mrs. Cole outstretched her hand to demand Tom Riddle back. ''Do not interrupt me, child.''

''Child?'' Hermione wondered in disbelief, holding onto Tom with a vice like grip now. Pouring more of her magic into keeping him safe. She'd never let anyone hurt a child like that. It reminded her of Harry, each time he'd come back from summer holidays and how he would need to eat more food to keep up. How he'd throw up food the first day back at Hogwarts because the Dursleys would have starved him, treating him inhumanely because he did not fit their mould. One of her hands grasped Tom's shoulder hard. ''Care?'' Hermione repeated. She saw no care in front of her.

Mrs. Cole gritted her teeth in impatience. She crossed her arms lividly and gave Hermione a mighty glare. Tom flinched beside her. Hermione scoffed at the woman and pointed. ''I think you ought to leave.''

''I shall not take orders from some childish girl who has no idea what I am doing. This boy is a menace. He is the devil's child! He is a _freak_!''

That was what did it for Hermione. She conjured back fire into her hands, powerful and potent like before. It reminded her of fiendfyre – possibly it was shapeless fiendfyre. Because this anger inside of her cannot be explained in mere words, only actions and dire, dire wrath. It was not a good emotion to have, of course – it shouldn't be an emotion that Hermione enables to envelop her whole being – but should it be forgotten? No. Never. Anger, at times, was a powerful tool that helped someone see perspective and allowed them to get motivated enough to change the world around them.

Hermione threatened Mrs. Cole, her voice slowing and lowering. ''Do not think, for even a moment, that I will let you hurt Tom again. You are a figment of this mind, a horrible memory – probably sculpted to be a guard of something important or,'' Hermione turned to Tom, then, and came to a realisation, ''a guard of something that needs to be forgotten and cannot be uncovered.'' Tom glanced up at her, his brown eyes blinking away silent tears. He had his hands clasped tightly into fists, holding them by his side. Hermione used her non-flaming hand to rub a small circle on his back, giving him a smile. He didn't smile back, but his tense shoulders relaxed, only slightly. He still registered Mrs. Cole as an immediate threat.

Mrs. Cole wore black clothes, as if she was emulating some Dementor from Tom's memory. It twisted Hermione's heart. She didn't know what she'd find in the depths of her own mind, but this whole journey made her want to never know. Hermione swiped her hand through the air and burned the tips of Mrs. Cole's already burnt and cracked hair. She screamed harshly, like a banshee.

''Tom and I are leaving. _For good_.'' Hermione hissed. Her eyes glowed red, reflecting the fiendfyre dancing across Mrs. Cole's frightened and twisted body. She tried to put herself out all while screaming. Hermione attempted to get Tom to not watch, but he pushed her hand away from his eyes and said that he needed to see this.

''You can't leave! It is disallowed!'' Mrs. Cole screeched. She scrambled, noting that she wouldn't be able to fight off the fire, to grab Hermione Granger and stop her at any means, even at the cost of her own sad, pathetic, hateful life. ''I am the boy's guardian. He is disallowed to leave without an adult present.''

Hermione Granger's hair rose with each word the woman gasped out. Her skin blotched with burns. Even with that, Mrs. Cole latched herself onto Hermione and disallowed her to move. ''You cannot leave with him. He is my responsibility. God gave him to test me, you see. He ruined my life and I promise to make his life Hell. Satanic little bastard that he is – mother's a freak – you know – girl – I shall give my life to uphold the Darkness and its orders! Nobody but me is capable of reigning him in – I am his guardian! I am an adult and I tell you now, child– ''

Before any more difficult words were said, Hermione placed her burning hand straight over Mrs. Cole's face and said: ''I _am_ an adult, _actually_. That means that I have more agency about my life. I've actually _got_ power now! I don't have a bedtime! I get to watch TELEVISION _after_ the power comes back – I have all of the power now!''

Tom had no idea what any of this meant. He was just happy to have someone this passionate on his side. Hermione triumphantly pointed at Tom and shouted: ''And that means I'm taking Tom with me!''

Mrs. Cole's lifeless body fell, charred and twitching. Darkness soon crossed over her like shadows and pulled her into its folds. Hermione watched all of this happen. Her heart hammered in her chest heard. Tom was shaking, incapable of speaking. Hermione's light and magic was beginning to be thinned and fatigued as she continued conjuring it up.

Tom whispered, briefly, faintly: ''You stood up to Mrs. Cole...''

''What,'' Hermione heaved a laboured breath, ''like it's hard?''

Tom Riddle gave her a genuine smile. The Darkness disappeared at the sight of it, scuttling back to its stronghold, realising that it needed higher power to defeat Hermione Jean Granger. ''You're the bee's knees, Hermione.''

Hermione wanted to get swept up in the moment, but then – only a second later – she narrowed her eyes and asked: ''That isn't an insult, is it?''

Tom shook his head. ''No, never. You're amazing.''

''Aw, thank you.'' Hermione ruffled Tom's hair. He scowled, but didn't retaliated how he would have before. ''Do you know the way out of this madness then?''

Tom looked around, squinting his eyes and trying to make out anything in the vicinity. Hermione exerted more of her power to conjure up light, realising that she was never going to be that little girl in her room again. She was an adult and that had weight. It meant that she could change the world for the better and not let injustice dominate the world. Hermione herself a mental pat on the back. Yes, this whole adult thing definitely had its perks.

''Ew.'' Tom Riddle spat on the ground. Hermione wanted to reprimand him that that wasn't a very polite thing to do. ''I know where we are.'' He gestured vaguely to fallen over stones. Blocks of stone, more precisely. Hermione approached them and saw runic inscriptions all over them. It kind of reminded her of the protection runes she'd been taught at Hogwarts.

''Where are we?''

Tom opened his mouth to tell her, but they were both interrupted by a loud cry that alerted Hermione that they weren't alone. Tom's disgust grew the louder the noise became.

''Is it Mrs. Cole?'' Hermione questioned him.

''Ugh.'' He looked about ready to spit on the ground again.

''Who is it? You don't look frightened.'' Which, Hermione admitted, was a step up from the whole Mrs. Cole situation.

''Everything he does and says disgusts me.'' A ten-year-old saying something like that was odd and got Hermione's attention. She asked him to lead her towards an exit. ''Do you have any idea how I can leave this place? I would rather prefer to spend time in my own brain and not let it get to such a state!''

''Ughhhhh.'' Tom Riddle was having a bit of a crisis talking to Hermione. He looked how Hermione had looked the first couple of years of Hogwarts whenever she'd see Draco Malfoy. A terrible, horrible mess of a man. Very idiotic to talk to. He'd matured, thankfully, and learned how to grow and be a better person.

''Who's coming to get you now?'' Hermione's light was flickering in and out.

The crying grew louder. It sounded more dramatic than it did distressed.

Tom Riddle fell to the ground, tackled by a force that Hermione forced herself to identify in the dark. She pulled the taller being off of Tom and found that this new attacker was none other than...''Tom Riddle?''

He fell into a state of tears and teenage angst at being addressed. ''Stop looking at me,'' he bemoaned, ''I am hideous!''

''You're a waste of air and space is what you are! Look at the sight of ya!'' Mini Tom yelled. Hermione had to think of a way to differentiate these two.

''You look perfectly normal?'' Hermione tried to get New Tom to talk to her about what was troubling him, but he just kept bawling his eyes out and saying how much he had missed Mini Tom. He pushed himself away from Hermione to hug Mini Tom again. The child was distressed at this.

''Get away from me, you moron!''

''I missed my good pal!''

''Cease and desist this at once, oi!''

''He even learned new words. I'm so proud of him! My little pal!''

''Ugh! I was happier when Mrs. Cole had us separated.''

''The evil which is Mrs. Cole is defeated.'' New Tom made a fist and pumped it in the air. ''We can go back to living peacefully in the forgotten annals of Tom Riddle's mind.''

''You fool! You don't think they'll send more of their guards to make us forgotten? Ha!''

New Tom sniffled. Hermione willed more light into her hand. She knelt down next to Mini Tom and saw how New Tom was sporting a couple of zits he was self-conscious about. Oh no. Her mouth thinned into a grim line. She had a teenager on her hands now.

''How old are you, Tom?''

New Tom outstretched his hand to shake hers. ''How do you do, Hermione Granger. I have heard _legends_ about you. And may I just say what a great honour it is to meet you.'' His eyes beheld hero worship for Hermione. She didn't think she deserved it. He didn't let go of her hand. ''I am fourteen years old!''

_Oh god._


	53. The Cat's Meow

Dumbledore looked, from this perspective Hermione saw him in now, like a great big twat begging to be punched in the face by an uppercut. Hermione said uppercut because she didn’t think fourteen year old Tom could manage more. She crossed her arms and thought about her life choices and how they had all led her to be trapped inside Lord Voldmeort’s bloody mind. It wasn’t a good train of thought to take, especially because said train just happened to be run by forgotten children. 

Much alike the ruins Voldemort’s mind was in, so did this makeshift Hogwarts Castle they found themselves in resemble. Dumbledore stood at the front gates of Hogwarts, holding a great list that rolled on and on and on across the floor. He wouldn’t let them exit Hogwarts. Because Tom Riddle’s name wasn’t on the list. 

Ten year old Tom just watched this accursed list keep rolling and rolling and rolling into infinity. He blinked. The list continued. He looked away. The list continued, marching on without a care for the things mortals thought. This list, Hermione was convinced, would rule them all if it was just a tiny bit smarter and more powerful. 

It kept rolling. 

Dumbledore adjusted his glasses on his nose. He had auburn hair and a bear to match, signifying that he wasn’t nearly as old as he was in Hermione’s time. Oh right. Her thoughts grimmed and her lips pulled back in a line: Dumbledore was dead. Which was still better than aligning him with Gellert Grindelwald’s fascistic self. Was she really contemplating which evil was lesser between Voldemort and Grindelwald? It wasn’t exactly a non-brainer. Grindelwald had definitely done more damage in the world, as a whole. But Voldemort’s movement had completely turned over the hard work Minister Leach had tried to accomplish. It’d set them all back tens of years with prejudice. Had the war never happened, for example, Draco would have never dreamed of calling Hermione a mudblood when they were young. 

’’Ah,’’ the man of the hour spoke as he regarded Hermione, Mini Tom, and Teen Tom, ’’you have come here to cause havoc and kill people, I imagine.’’ 

’’Um, no, just to get an education, please.’’ Teen Tom said, pulling his lips into a weird, genuinely bittersweet smile. ’’Hogwarts is my favourite place in the world, sir. I would never deface it with blood.’’ 

Hermione had to say that this was accurate enough, given how Myrtle Warren’s body had all of its blood inside of her at the time of her death. Clever little wordsmith. 

He fumbled under the direct scrutiny of Albus Dumbledore, shrugging his shoulders slightly to alleviate the awkward tension. Tom tried to smile, but at Dumbledore’s apathetic gaze thought better of it and had it slide down. ‘’Well, yes, whatever you say, sir.’’

’’Quite right, quite right.’’ Dumbledore nodded his head. He reminded Hermione of Binns. Was this how Tom saw him? It was a sad thought, really. Hermione had always regarded Dumbledore as a beacon of knowledge and hope. He’d helped her pave her path and – yes, to be fair – used her as a bit of a figurehead. But it was all for the sake of showing how muggleborns could be extremely smart – it was a way to show the world they lived in (still so entrenched in their prejudice) that muggleborns wouldn’t be second class citizens! It was all for the greater goo-  _ oh sweet merciful Godric. _

Hermione truly hated her predicament. ’’I want to leave.’’ She spoke up, feeling like more of a child than any of the present apparitions. Dumbledore blinked at her like some bird. He tilted his head and sprouted red feathers, akin to his Fawkes. Did he even have that bird in the 40s? It was a strange question to pose. She gulped down the trepidation and the fear that was building into what she could only assume was an impending panic attack. These little distractions weren’t helping her. Her heart still hammered like a woodpecker hammered along at a tree. Or a tree house. Or was it how a thousand termites marched towards a wooden house? Hermione didn’t know which comparison put her at more unease. 

On their way through Hogwarts, Hermione had crossed a great abundance of nothingness. She was accompanied by a child and a slightly taller child. The slightly taller child was just, absolutely happy go lucky Hermione swore she’d never seen such enthusiasm in her mentor Goldsmith. Voldemort. Whatever. At this point it wasn’t even worth differentiating. She had more pressing matters to attend to. 

’’We’re back together!’’ The taller Tom said. He had a hand to his hip and a wide grin on his slightly pimpled face. Hermione had seen worse. Hermione had  _ lived _ worse.

‘’Eewwwww.’’ Ten year old Tom yelled. He was just about ready to die of embarrassment. ‘’You’re disgusting and you ought to stop speaking to me! Shut it! Shut up - STOP HUGGING ME!’’

Tom did not stop hugging little Tom. Hermione was taken aback at how actually childish they were acting. Like the children they were. She furrowed her brows at the display in front of her and sighed, deeply. She truly had her work cut out for her. ‘’Does anyone mind explaining to me what all of this is?’’ Hermione gestured for their physical display of affection. Little Tom was going to die or kill slightly taller Tom. Depending on what became easier and less likely to haunt him. 

‘’Well, we don’t remember exactly when it happened.’’ Teen Tom said. Hermione, at this point, was trying to figure out what the funniest descriptor would be for each Tom. It was the little things in life that kept her sane. ‘’But,’’ the teen exclaimed, ‘’we do know that the consensus was that Tom and I had to leave.’’

‘’FUCKERS!’’ Tiny Tom shouted. He growled an aggrieved growl at the back of his throat and said that it wasn’t fair at all. ‘’They’re scared of us. They’re scared of the life they had - the life they could have had before they all bloody went and destroyed our soul. Didn’t ask us. We weren’t part of that decision making process. When you shove away your past, you’re bound to repeat it. Isn’t that how that works?’’

‘’Binns says that if you don’t know your history you’re bound to repeat it, yes.’’ 

‘’Yes! It is ignorant and - do you even KNOW why they pushed us down and wanted to forget us?’’ 

Teen Tom bobbed his head, left and right, as if trying to really get to the bottom of this through contemplation. He pressed a finger to his lips and mused: ‘’Because they don’t like to be reminded of our systematic abuse, misdiagnosis of mental illness, that one time they tried to exorcise us, being raised catholic, the internalized homophobia and sexism, violent tendencies that stem from our lack of affection and friendship, being touch starved, the anger issues stemming from our abandonment issues, that one time we nearly got drowned when we went to the beach which we turned around and drowned another kid back, that one time we kissed a girl on a dare and she turned out to be Billy’s girlfriend and then he beat us up because Billy’s always been bigger than us - or how about that time when we killed that rabbit by sheer accident, but of course, we couldn’t just admit that because nobody would believe us so we hanged it off the rafters like some bloody serial killers. How about those for a start?’’ 

Mini Tom narrowed his brown eyes. And what a strange sight those were, truly. She was used to her mentor’s red eyes that showed his inhumanity. ‘’Yes to all of those. Of course. Our life has not been kind. It’s the bloody 30s, what do you fucking expect?’’ 

‘’Well, I don’t know! You just keep trying to paint us as some victims, but the real victims are the ones who are forced to remember us.’’ Tom shook his head grimly. ‘’It is difficult, Tom.’’

‘’Of course, Tom. But, those aren’t the reasons why they exiled me to forgetfulness.’’ Mini Tom crossed his arms and curled his lips into a smile that knew things the older Tom didn’t. ‘’It’s because I had a  **_plan_ ** .’’

‘’Oh Slytherin, not this again. Do not embarrass us in front of Hermione. She doesn’t need to know about your silly little plan. We’re magic! Magic over muggleness any day you little fink.’’

‘’So, I’m a fink now, am I?’’ Tom nodded. He put his fists up. ‘’Right, have at it, mate. Let’s see what you’re made out of without your magic.’’

‘’I am not fighting a child-’’

‘’Because you know you’d lose! Face it, you got pushed down here with me because you’re weak!’’

‘’I’m magic! I can’t be  _ weak _ .’’ 

‘’You got shoved down here because, as much as everyone wants to think I’m the most frightening thing to remember - you’re worse! You still cling to the fact that you might get adopted. Secretly you want a family - and yeah, you’re never getting that. Loving people is a weakness that’s done us nothing but harm.’’ Tom shouted. ‘’You want to START a family of your own, even! Even after all of the abuse, you think you’re allowed to dream that. Well, face it pal, nobody wants us, nobody wants to love us, and nobody in their right mind would ever think you might be a good father!’’

Older Tom flinched as if burned. ‘’Wanting to be loved isn’t a weakness, it’s a basic human necessity. We can’t really think we’re above that, can we?’’

Mini Tom laughed so hard tears sprang up in his eyes. ‘’You fool!’’

Hermione was going to need a paid vacation after she left this brain. She really did. Abraxas, out of guilt for making her end up with Goldsmith as her mentor, might be inclined to pay for it in its entirety. 

‘’Hey, what do you think of Abraxas Malfoy?’’

Both Toms exclaimed, mid fight: ‘’WE HAVE CONFLICTING FEELINGS ABOUT HIM.’’ 

The fight that broke out was enough to tumble them all across Hogwarts, until they reached Dumbledore’s post. 

* * *

‘’Sir, we really need to leave. We need to get Hermione to the surface so she can leave this place. Someone as amazing and awesome as THE Hermione Granger can’t spend the rest of her life trapped inside of a school. No matter how much I may love it.’’ Tom proudly explained. Hermione just nodded. 

Dumbledore smiled that twinkly, shite-eating little smile of his. He coughed and it reminded Hermione only of Umbridge. His feathered face peered at her specifically before turning to Tom and saying in the most faux-apologetic tone of voice conceivably possible: ’’I would like to help you, Mr. Riddle. But you know that I cannot make exceptions for anyone.’’ 

’’Our bloody legal guardian’s caught on fire.’’ Small Tom said. He had no qualms with talking back to Dumbledore. This was a child younger than the one Dumbledore had met. 

The old wizard gave him a painfully saccharine smile as well. He outstretched his hand and patted the boy on the head twice, as one would a dog. ’’Good job, little child. Good job. But the adults are speaking now and you ought to run along.’’

Hermione understood that subjectivity played a big hand in how this Dumbledore was seen and built in Tom Riddle’s mind, but she – also – had to concede that Dumbledore did think he was the smartest human being in the whole wide universe. 

Ten year old Tom Riddle, Hermione imagined, could single-handedly take down the whole of Wizarding Britain if only riled up enough. He got up to his tippy-toes (what with being a short and skinny malnourished child) and shouted in the most cockney accent Hermione had ever heard: ’’OI!’’ The things that fell out of that kid’s mouth were neither friendly nor child-friendly. 

Fourteen year old Tom looked just about ready to die of embarrassment and horror. ’’PLEASE,’’ He placed a hand over Tiny Tom’s mouth, ’’don’t expell me because of him. Hogwarts is everything I have. It’s the one place I’ve only ever been allowed to be myself. Sir, put aside our differences and do not – ’’ Tiny Tom licked Slightly Taller Tom’s hand, causing the older youth to shout in revulsion. 

Hermione watched all of this go down how an aunt at a family dinner might watch her niece nad nephew destroy each other – as well as the meticulously placed cutlery. Yes, this felt exactly like that. She nodded. 

’’I won’t be silenced no more!’’ Tom yelled. The child. The slightly taller child tended to use posher grammar, given how he was ridiculed for his way of speaking due to the harsh classist climate of the wizarding world. Hermione was happy she’d grown up upper middle class. She couldn’t imagine being in Tom’s shoes. Though, then, as if thinking about bullying circumstances summoned the greatest bully of all times – a small girl – slightly taller than the slightly taller child – emerged from behind Dumbledore. She had mean Black eyes. 

Fourteen year old Tom nearly fainted. Ten year old Tom put up his fists at the girl and said he was ready to fight anybody. ’’I ’ad a plan before all of you came in ’ere and ruined me life, ya did!’’ 

Curiosity besting her steel sense of reason forced Hermione into asking: ’’Plan?’’ 

Ten year old Tom’s eyes sparked full of fire. He gave Hermione a big smile. One of his front teeth were knocked out. He forgot the girl glaring daggers at fourteen year old Tom, instead choosing to focus back all of his attention on Hermione. He steepled his fingers – which was odd enough to see on a child to begin with – and whispered: ’’I had a plan before I realised I was a wizard, you know.’’ 

Hermione assumed that was the case. She, herself, had had a plan to become the next Margaret Thatcher – just – well – a little better and a little more loved, hopefully. Being told she was a witch and part of a difficult and hidden world had wholly turned her world upside down. Minerva McGonagall had been very kind, Hermione remembered. Very quick to reassure both the Doctors Granger and Miss Granger (future doctor, definitely on the agenda) that being magical wasn’t anything abnormal nor should it be frowned upon. 

So, yes, Hermione completely understood what it was like to have a plan that got demolished at age eleven. She bent down to be closer to Tom’s height and asked, also whispering because this had to be very important and secretive to the young boy. ’’Would you like to share your plan with me, Tom?’’ 

Tom nodded. He asked Hermione to draw nearer because he was going to whisper the secret into her ear. Hermione obliged. She glanced over to Dumbledore, who was still reading of off the list. The contents of said list weren’t comprehensible because each time he’d read something off of it the whole sphere of sound encompassing them all would sound exactly like television static. Taller Tom was trying to avoid dying via Mean Girl’s Dagger Eyes. 

’’My plan was to become a tailor.’’ 

’’A tailor?’’ Hermione balked. She tried to imagine Lord Voldemort – Montgomery Goldsmith - Tom Riddle as a tailor? It was unfathomable for her. She furrowed her brows and blinked. ’’Why on earth would you want to be a tailor?’’ 

Tom crossed his arms and glared at her for insulting his profession. ’’I was handy. I had quick and precise fingers.’’ He flexed his hands. ’’I have quick and precise fingers. Sewing wasn’t a bloody gender role if you were an orphan, it was a life skill, thank you. Besides, I even liked it. It isn’t a profession to be frowned down on, rich girl!’’ 

Hermione blushed at being reprimanded by a child. She, furthermore, flushed bright crimson when he called her out on not being able to sew. ’’You wouldn’t even be able to get married!’’ 

’’Shut up, twerp!’’ Hermione couldn’t help herself. Yelling at rude children just came naturally to her as a Prefect and Head Girl. 

’’We’re magic, Tom!’’ Taller Tom said. He was mighty proud of the fact. ’’We were never meant to be tailors or factorymen. That isn’t nice to think about at all!’’ 

Tom scrunched up his young face into a deeper sneer. ’’You’re an idiot!’’ 

’’Excuse me?’’ 

’’Yeah, you heard me. You’re adhering to laws some  **_intruder_ ** set in our mind.’’ 

’’The Darkness has always been here! Always present with us and guiding us, but it couldn’t lead us to prosperity because the original kept mucking things up and ruining our soul – therefore ruining our mind along with it.’’ Tom was quite proud of his little spiel. The Mean Girl pretended to lunge at him and Tom screamed high and loud, running to Hermione for safety and protection. 

’’Not only are you an idiot, but you are, also, a sheep!’’ 

’’A sheep?’’ Tom frowned. 

The Mean Girl pipped up then: ’’YES, YES, A SHEEP! A mudblood sheep!’’ 

’’Miss Black, ten points to  _ Gryffindor _ . Exquisite work as always.’’ Dumbledore then shimmied in place to give himself a pat on the back and a congratulatory dance at how much of an amazing professor he was. Pedagogy was skyrocketing through the roof, indeed. 

’’She’s not even a Gryffindor!’’ Hermione exclaimed, utterly baffled by the events unfolding in front of her. ‘’Why are you rewarding racism?!’’

‘’If it is aimed at Tom Riddle, I hardly see the point in holding the moral high ground.’’ This mind Dumbledore was really a piece of shite, Hermione’s whole body shuddered. 

’’Why won’t you let us pass?’’ Hermione had had enough of any of this. She crossed her arms and waited for Dumbledore to attempt to pull the wool over her eyes. She was an adult, now, and she had had it with secretive adults that didn’t help children in need, but left them in abusive households where they were called freak on an every-day basis. Yes, she had quite a lot of things she’d always wanted to say to Dumbledore, but had never had the guts to go through with it. Yelling at a Headmaster was just too big of a move for her. Living with Lord Voldemort - Tom Riddle, as she was being more inclined to call him – had taught her that life was too short to keep one’s mouth shut. She should yell at everybody and everything that rattled her. Well, all right – not people working in the service industry because they were trying their best and that whole system was made to be directly against them. But at everything else? YES! 

’’Because he hasn’t got his permission slip signed.’’ Dumbledore rubbed at his short auburn beard. Hermione’s left eye twitched. She couldn’t believe that this was the reason why they’d all be held up this long. 

’’Didn’t you hear that the boy’s legal guardian has perished in a fiendish fire?’’ Hermione wished to have enough magic to will back the fire and threaten the old coot with it. She was becoming rather good at it, too. 

’’I cannot make any exceptions. It is against the rules.’’ 

Bullshite. Hermione thought back on all of the exceptions Dumbledore had made for Gryffindors over the years. Hermione always felt so awful, as if she shouldn’t feel victorious after winning the House Cup year after year after year of nobody in Gryffindor losing the amount of points that they ought to have. Dumbledore had just kept turning blind eyes. And now he was blind in his own grave. Oh the drama of it all. 

Hermione sighed. ’’Who can sign the permission slip?’’ She knew the rules. She knew the rules by heart at this point. Learning about structure fascinated Hermione. She was, and this she would swear on, one of the few students that had memorized the rule list. The others were Fred and George Weasley who’d memorized the school’s code of conduct solely to be able to go around it. It was artful destruction. 

’’His legal guardian.’’ 

Hermione’s mind worked wonders, of course. She scoffed and conjured up a pen out of thin air. ’’Where’s the permission slip?’’ 

The permission slip materialized. It was made out of paper instead of parchment. Hermione wrote her name on it. ’’There. I’m an adult. He’s in my care. I’m guarding him from his own mind, therefore I am his guardian. Let us through.’’ 

Dumbledore nodded his head. He rolled up the eternally rolling-out parchment roll and stepped aside to let Hermione, ten year old Tom, and fourteen year old Tom walk through the big gates.

Fourteen year old Tom swooned, he had his hands clasped together as he looked in awe at Hermione, only managing to whisper: ‘’You’re the Cat’s Meow, truly.’’ 

Once they walked through the gates, the sight in front of Hermione made her curse foully.

‘’What is wrong with all of you?!’’ 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Question: what are your thoughts overall on Retired Prometheus? I'm really curious why you're still here after so many chapters and what part is making you want to follow along. :D


	54. Help! I need somebody! Help! Not just anybody! HELP!

Tom Riddle was in a bind. He, too didn't appreciate such wordplay. No, a more apt descriptor of his situation could be summed up as: currently being buried alive against his will by his own mind that had decided he wasn't of any use to them because of their differing stance on life. It wasn't a profoundly good look on him. He had his hands tied up with a Ravenclaw coloured tie. His mouth was stuffed with a Slytherin coloured tie. While his legs were tied up with a petrificus totalus spell. They'd run out of ties. Some Tom Riddles were stationed by his side. They held shovels in their hands and dug a hole nobody could get out of. While they dug, they made sure to chat him up amicably and continuously pour salt onto his deep, deep wound. ''It will be freeing for you, I think.'' One of them said. Tom called him One. ''To relinquish all of this control. You have led us all to ruin and chaos. The Darkness is true, the Darkness will not let us corrode.''

The Other Tom said, this one dubbed Two: ''Maybe, just for a change, you will even learn to like yourself. Being forgotten isn't all that bad. We've voted to forget things quite often. Our childhood for one. Maybe, sparsely, we'll recall the good things from our past because living with such burdens isn't something we like to inflict upon ourselves. We are just a tad masochistic, but really - that is beyond the pale.''

Tom Riddle had quite a bit to say on that topic. He couldn't of course, because the Slytherin tie kept him silent. His nose was clogged and it made it very difficult to breathe. His muffled curses only served to humiliate him further. There had been too many of the Darkness' servants for him to handle battling. All he hoped was that Hermione found a way out of this. Even if she went to the Order and they found him like this, a Mind Healer would be imminent in his retrieval. Tom groaned past the gag. How could he let this happen to himself was the true question. How could ever get to this point of no return?

He craned his body to the side and saw the great hole where they were going to cast him into. Two was heaving in exertion. ''Why don't we just dig with magic, again?''

One answered with an eye roll. ''Of course we can't use magic to dig this. It is much more dramatic and traumatic for him to see it be dug in front of him.'' One turned to Tom and asked, cheerful. Tom would put him to be around his Albanian years. ''Aren't you traumatized? The Darkness told us a good scare would do you good, you know.''

Tom willed his magic to aid him, but whenever he attempted this - either of the Toms would just hit him across the head with a shovel and it would all cancel out. Then he would get reprimanded and chastised. ''It is never good to go against the Darkness, Tom. Trying to fight is an indication of dire dire mental disfiguration.''

Tom was going to kill each and every one of them, he swore this. However, being tied up did lead him to hearing many, many conversations between the Toms. They spoke quietly of recent news that had swept all across his mindscape, frightening everyone and letting them know that someone horrifying had escaped the compounds of their imprisonment. Tom must have looked inquisitive enough when One had glanced back at him, because he finally got some manner of explanation: ''Oh, we voted to lock them away - for their own good, of course, don't think the Darkness is merciless!''

Two continued, sagely. This one was around the 1980s Tom's years, he'd say. ''Yes, they had no place in this mind anymore. Whenever we would think about them or look at them we would just be overcome with great anger and sadness.''

One nodded. ''Yes, we truly did not need them anymore. BUT NOW THEY'VE ESCAPED! Like lunatics! How did they get past their guards? Who is doing all of this MADNESS?''

Tom Riddle could take a wild guess and say:

''HERMIONE GRANGER?!''

Both of the Toms dropped their shovels.

* * *

The more time Hermione spent in her sick mentor's mind the more she grew fed up with the situation. She walked through the doors and entered a large clearing. It was the first lobby, the one with the filing cabinets and retail-scarred Tom Riddles. She saw them scattered about the clearing, but the first vision that fell into her line of sight wasn't her tied up mentor (he was second); it was the Darkness lazing on a throne made of shadow. It lounged and regarded her with indifference.

Hermione prepared herself for confrontation. She didn't know if she could win against it. It looked to be completely at ease in Tom Riddle's mind. As if this place was made for it. This whole scenario had Hermione's hairs stand up at attention. Her skin prickled with goosebumps.

''Apprentice,'' the Darkness addressed her. It told the other Toms to finish up their work with her mentor, that burying him alive was their top priority. Then it turned all of its attention to Hermione and smiled. It was a difficult smile to swallow. One full of enigmatic implications.

''I'm not your apprentice.'' Hermione's voice didn't shake. It was a miracle, truly. Anyone else would have shaken in the presence of something so maligned and dangerous. Something that had slithered into one's mind when one wasn't looking and stayed there, rotting the brain from the inside out, until the person couldn't even recognize his own mind. ''I would prefer if you did not speak to me.''

The Darkness cracked a smile, wheezing out a small, condescending laugh. ''How inane of you to believe you have any choice in the matter of whom I address and whom I do not. You are a passerby. One that I unfortunately allowed too much leeway. If you promise that you will not help the original - who is being tried for his crimes against the mind of Tom Riddle - I will gladly show you the way out. And isn't that something that you want to do more than anything?''

It was chaos when they caught sight of the ten year old manifestation of their childhood. He glared fiercely at the Darkness, finding it nothing more than a great inconvenience, an intruder of epic proportions, and a waste of their time and effort as a whole of Tom Riddle's mind. Tom crossed his arms and shouted: ''You lot are bloody cowards!''

This yell, this accusation scattered across the present Tom's like a ripple effect. How one might throw a skipping stone and watch as the water tore apart with each skip could be compared to how the mindscape tore and wobbled at spotting opposition in their calm and numb mind.

Fourteen year old Tom stood aside, giving the spotlight to the youngest member of their mind - who was, in actuality - the oldest part because he was the oldest resident of this mind. One could be bold enough to say that he'd been the main pillar of it.

''Just because it's easier to give in to the Darkness doesn't mean it's the right thing to do! How can any of you be so blind? This thing - and yes, it is a thing - doesn't have a fucking clue how to run this place.''

One of the Darkness' Toms raised a hand. ''Ah, yes, well, did the original HAVE ANY idea either?''

''More than this thing!'' Mini Tom yelled. ''This thing wanted us to get our soul sucked out by Dementors - oh wait - of course! None of you assholes remember this because you've repressed it, as well as everything bad this thing's ever done to us.''

The Darkness spoke up at such dire accusations. ''This child is confused.''

And without wanting to see any proof, everyone simultaneously agreed that Mini Tom and Teen Tom definitely needed to get hospitalized or completely forgotten because they were bringing the mood down.

''Boo! You were forgotten by the time the worst came. Who in their right mind attacks a baby?!''

''Who in their right mind gets defeated by a baby is my question!''

The Darkness' Toms began a heated debate. ''Nobody likes to remember you, muggle boy!''

''Muggle boy? I was happiest without any of this magic bullshit!'' Mini Tom exclaimed. ''At least then I didn't have any of my hopes up. Do you know how much it hurt us when we realised that Hogwarts was not as perfect as we thought it would be? No, no you've all forgotten that. Only me and this bloke remember.'' Mini Tom pointed at Teen Tom. ''You pushed us away, but'' his gaze darkened, ''I won't be pushed back again without a fight. And I'll give you a fight, this time. I swear.''

Hermione slinked off to help her mentor during this entire segment. Mini Tom wasn't deterred. He had come here to speak to the Darkness and reach out to the rest of the fractured mind of one Tom Marvolo Riddle. ''If it weren't for magic we would have still had our whole soul. We could have gotten a tailor apprenticeship. Mrs. Cole was pushing it on us. She wanted us out of her orphanage as quickly as possible. Sure, it wouldn't be as glamorous as all of you wanted our life to be, but be sensible! Being special and wanting to be special has always been a sign of our self worth issues! And EXTRA, EXTRA - READ ALL ABOUT IT RIGHT HERE, RIGHT NOW - THAT SHIT IS TERRIBLE!''

Mini Tom, Hermione swore, had completely decided to rant and do nothing more. It was very commendable. He even turned towards the original and asked him: ''Original, I hope you're taking notes here, because you've seriously disappointed all of us.''

Her mentor had stopped altogether from trying to flee from the impending Tom guards. Hermione was retreating, hoping she wouldn't get cornered with her mentor.

''I'm sorry.'' Tom Riddle whispered softly. It carried over to Mini Tom. ''I really never intended for this to happen.''

The young child replied hotly, having no patience anymore for the Darkness and for the original: ''I don't need your apology. It means nothing to me. You've done enough damage to us all as you can see.'' Mini Tom gestured to the all encompassing Darkness. It looked right at home in Tom's mind. ''Contain it, get it under control. Do whatever you need to do before it makes us all forgotten.''

''I… I will try my best.''

''It better be good enough.'' Mini Tom scoffed.

It was around this time that fourteen year old Tom decided he had things to say. An imaginary spotlight flickered above him. ''I cannot believe none of you want to be loved. What's wrong with wanting to be loved? It's the most wonderful thing in the world. Of course, it takes time and effort. We weren't taught how to love and for that we are, in a way, severely handicaped whenever someone starts talking about love. Emotions are difficult to understand. Social cues, even more. Thank Salazar for legilimency and occlumency else we never would have made it... But, - oh right I was talking about love.'' Tom was growing more anxious by the minute. The Darkness gave him its undivided attention, syphoning his confidence away, stripping it inch by inch away until nothing but a fearful teenager was left.

Ten year old Tom elbowed fourteen year old Tom into continuing: ''You think that just because we didn't get love when we were young we don't deserve it? Aren't we supposed to be the smartest mind of our generation? How on Earth did we become this stupid? The Darkness – yes, yes, our so-called saviour – just came here and decided to own the place. And it isn't anyone's place but Tom Riddle's! Most of you don't remember what it was like to have a whole soul, or even half of a soul, or even a third of a soul – but it wasn't like this. It was much clearer, with a lot less surrealism to go around.'' His voice cracked at the end and he blushed crimson in embarrassment.

The Darkness saw itself above petty revolutionary talk. The fourteen year old Tom sounded like a child yelling at a president of some extremely important function. It leered down at Tom, thinking up of all of the delicious ways it could destroy and forget this little morsel even existed.

''And, and I know – it is hard functioning when our original has done such a shoddy job of taking care of us all for such a long time – but didn't you ever hear of that phrase: Divide and Conquer?''

Ten year old Tom took over this stupid speech before even more Toms cringed at the audacity of last known Tom to have a full soul and a voice cracking problem. ''Oi, so, yeah, the lot of you are complete arses. Just because you don't want to admit that your past was fucked, which it was, right, doesn't give you the right to just waltz in here and plunge us into disarray.'' Tom pointed at Hermione's mentor, who wasn't as much tied up in ties, as he was tied up in the moment with having to fight the guardian Tom's back to back with Hermione. ''He's sick.'' Ten year old Tom said. ''He's sick and it's his fault for not asking for help. It's his fear and it's his upbringing that have made him into the person he is. Does that excuse his actions? No.'' The child shrugged, exhibiting more emotional intelligence and awareness in that moment than the entirety of the Darkness' legion. ''It really doesn't excuse him. But you don't remember what it was like to be better. Not well. I don't think we were _ever_ well. You couldn't be in that place. Nor could you be under Walburga Black's scrutiny and Dumbledore's favoritism.''

''Don't we all want to be better?'' Fourteen year old Tom asked. He was the one who welcomed feelings.

Most of the Toms in the Darkness' legion gagged in sheer disgust at the appalling nature of such a predicament. They would rather die, they said. Then, upon reflection, they said that Death was far too permanent a solution and that they'd rather forget fourteen year old Tom had ever said something to foul.

''Fifty points from Slytherin!'' One of the Tom's jeered cruelly. ''You don't know anything about anyone here. We chose the Darkness and we'll always choose it. Compared to the original – who's a weakling over there barely managing to teach that lovely powerhouse Hermione Granger anything worth her salt – the Darkness is an actual presence that has gotten wonderful results.''

Followed suit a presentation on all of the things the Darkness had done for Tom Riddle's brain. The Darkness amicably watched, its mouth shaping into a disgusting smirk. Misinformation upon misinformation upon warped reality and senses and misremembering of occurrences piled up into a giant garbage landfill.

Fourteen year old Tom stared in horror. ''There is no helping us.'' He admitted.

Ten year old Tom narrowed his brown eyes. They contrasted to the varying shades of red the rest of the Toms had - showing how little soul they had. He noted how the Toms were approaching them, their expressions warped with anger. When one didn't have enough capacity to understand a concept, they began to hate said concept with a passion unlike any other.

''Hermione?'' Fourteen year old Tom asked for their saviour. Their true saviour.

She was with the original hitting seventeen year olds over the head with her clasped fists. ''Stay down, you soulless prick!''

''Atta girl!'' Her mentor exclaimed proudly.

''Don't you even START, sir, you're the worst out of them all.'' Hermione's exhaustion was noted.

The original fell silent at this. His face was pulled back in a worried, reprimanded look. ''Thank you,'' he said to her when they went back to back again, being pushed back by the abundance of the Darkness' minions. She nodded and said nothing more. It was acknowledged.

Realising that nobody was going to help them, the youngest of the Tom Riddles squared his shoulders, lifted his gaze, and told slightly taller Tom to give him cover. ''I've got a plan.''

''Fuck your plans!'' Fourteen year old Tom shouted. ''They aren't going to help us out, they aren't!''

''Just trust me.'' Mini Tom said. He had his eyes set on a clerk with a filing cabinet. In this wake of chaotic revolution nobody was thinking that he had anything worth their time. But he did. He knew that if they couldn't beat the Darkness here, they could- at least - help the original and Hermione on their way through this drowned mind.

''Fine.'' Fourteen year old Tom shoved himself onto a Tom that wasn't on their side. This allowed Mini Tom to sprint past them.

He faced off with the clerk. ''Do exactly as I tell you or I'll bust your kneecaps.''

The clerk, seeing how chaotic this mindscape had become, raised his hands in the air and sighed. ''I really am underpaid for this. Do whatever you like, child.''

Tom, not expecting this, thanked the clerk. ''Err, okay. Goodbye.''

As the clerk left, Mini Tom jumped into the frey of filing cabinets, pulling them out like mad. He was going to get to the bottom of all of this. The root of all of their dissonance and dejectedness lay in one of these files. Hermione had mentioned they were in search of 1968, so it stood as reasonable to get to it before the Darkness did.

And the Darkness took notice of Mini Tom. They made eye contact. Mini Tom shuddered at the potent gaze and hurried across his fear. He was on a mission. And if they made him be forgotten then he was going to do his best to help Hermione and the original. They were strong willed and would survive.

Mini Tom couldn't find 1968 labelled on any of the filing cabinets, even the ones hidden in the back. The Darkness trailed down from its high throne. It advanced towards the youngest and most dangerous foe. Mini Tom quickened his search, muttering curses under his breath and trying not to freeze in fear.

What he did find, on the other hand - seemed to make the Darkness hiss (not like a kettle, or a small garden snake). It was like a Basilisk. One that didn't like him. One that wanted to kill him with its eyes. Tom wouldn't let this happen to him. He was close to finding something juicy.

The Darkness' steps clacked hard against the marble floor of the mindscape. All of the chaos got drowned out by such powerful noise. Mini Tom didn't want to look up and see what had happened to his slightly taller friend or Hermione and the original who were fighting off the rest of the less important Toms. He was too afraid to check.

His hands curled around the handle of a rusted, ugly, and worn-out cabinet. It wasn't labelled, sticking out like a sore thumb among the haphazardly _labelled_ cabinets and files. He put his foot against the cabinet and pulled with all of his might. He could hear the Darkness approaching, running towards him at great speed - not hissing now - but screeching like a mighty bird demon from the depths of the abyss Tom Riddle had grown too scared to look into.

It was just as the Darkness grabbed a hold of his shoulder that Mini Tom managed to fling the cabinet open, sending an immediate flash of iridescent light all across the mindscape.

* * *

The portal opened and Tom Riddle, the original, the mentor, the one that had fucked up his brain to a point of possible return (only aided with help and hard work) decided that he and Hermione Granger didn't need to stay here for this bloodbath a second longer. He grabbed a hold of Hermione's hand in his and sprinted towards the glimmering, blinding portal in plain sight. She glanced back to the fighting Toms and had to bite back the urge to go and help them. They weren't real, at the end of the day, and she did want to leave this brain uninjured if at all possible.

Once they made the jump they were transported through a terrible, dire fire that disallowed the Darkness into following them. They fell down to the ground and noted that they were in the Great Hall of Hogwarts.

Tom Riddle was quicker than Hermione, which meant that he was the first to get to his feet and take out his acacia wand. He'd finally had enough peace of mind to conjure it. Hermione had to be thanked for that, because if it wasn't for her going through his mind he wouldn't have ever won against the Darkness. A chill ran up his spine at such a revelation.

''Help.'' he whispered the words, manifesting them into reality.

Hermione turned to him, groggy from the fall. She pushed herself to her feet shakily and asked him what he'd said.

Tom Riddle gritted his teeth in anguish and came to terms with something he'd wanted to never acknowledge: ''Help. I _need_ help.''

''Yes,'' Hermione scrunched up her face in that 'isn't it obvious?' sort of way, ''you really do, sir.''

''Fuck.'' Tom Riddle said. ''I need _professional_ help.''

''Oof. Yes.'' Hermione widened her eyes, shook her head, and exhaled deeply. ''Like, as much as you can handle. Mind Healers would _pay_ _you_ to get help if they even knew a fraction of how badly your brain was functioning.''

''Noted.''

''I mean, sir, really, mental illness isn't that big of a deal nor is it as stimagized as it was in your time - getting help is a very normal and kind thing to do to yourself -''

''Hermione, I swear, you should drop this subject.''

''Just because you got misdiagnosed as a kid with schizophrenia because nobody could explain if you could really talk to snakes or if you were hallucinating it - yes the little Toms talk - but such a terrible, very, very horrible experience shouldn't stop you from getting help!''

''You really need to stop speaking.'' Tom Riddle, uncomfortable beyond words, decided that he was going to exit the Great Hall. His long legs crossed the distance quickly, but it was like a sledgehammer slammed against his knees when he caught sight of a boy in front of him.

He had a spiffy, know-it-all smile and a loose bronze and blue tie that was against school regulations. His eyes were merry and full of life. With such unbound, terrifying speed his hand shot up to wave: ''Oi, mate!''

Then his expression changed. He sprinted towards Tom, and as Tom braced for impact, found that he wasn't right about his estimation. This boy ran straight through him. Tom turned around and saw that the boy had sprinted through Hermione as well.

She pivoted on her heel to see where he was headed. It was to the Slytherin table, adorned above by banners, and decorated by children wearing green and silver and pure blood. Safe, of course, for Slytherin's mudblood.

''Mate, oi!'' The boy said again. He waved as if waving made somebody hear you better. His grin was unfaltering.

Tom's tense shoulders loosened; but they sagged, too. Hermione came by his side and asked him who that was. ''Do you know him?''

A humourless laugh escaped him. ''Do I know him? Oh, yes - yes, I do believe I do know him.''

The boy wound up at the Slytherin table. ''Tom, mate, I have an amazing idea!''

Walburga Black placed her head in her hands then and groaned with her mouth halfway full with a sandwich made out marmalade: ''Argh! Nobby Leach and his ideas!''

''Can this wait?'' The Tom at the table asked in a cautious, self-conscious tone of voice.

Abraxas, and Hermione recognized him very quickly in a sea of brown hair, laughed loudly. ''Oh please take him off our hands, Leach. The mudblood should be with its own kind.''

Hermione wished she wasn't transparent and intangible at the moment, because her urge to slap a child had just quadrupled. ''What a prick.''

''Yes.'' Her mentor said, voice small and quiet and respectful as he watched Nobby Leach usher Tom out of the Great Hall, placing a hand over his shoulder and telling him all about the great, ingenious, marvelous ideas he had.

''You will help me, right? Can't do this without my number one.'' Nobby's smile hadn't faltered for a moment. ''Professors actually respect you! They just find me annoying.''

Young Tom Riddle shrugged his shoulders awkwardly and whispered: ''I suppose there are worse things than helping you.''

''Mark this date as the start of something fantastic Tom!'' Nobby Leach faltered for a moment, ''What date is it again?''

''September 21st, 1940.''

Nobby Leach nodded. ''Right, of course! This date marks the start of MUDPRIDE! I know a couple of muggleborns - ahem - mudbloods that are keen on an idea of forming a group where we talk about how much we really don't want to let purebloods - ahem - the racists make our Hogwarts stay terrible. It will be amazing. And - and ! It will be even more amazing with you there - Slytherin's only mudblood in _**generations.**_ They say mudbloods aren't smart? Ha, you're the smartest student in this whole Castle. You prove them wrong just by existing and working hard. There's also this girl from Hufflepuff whom I am a tad wary of approaching - Mandy Sullivan - she is _the_ cat's meow. I'm sure she will be happy to help our cause out.''

''That is the worst idea you've had yet, Leach.'' Tom, I am in a nest of said racist purebloods, Riddle had this to say.

Nobby Leach didn't deflate. His eyes sparkled. ''Then I know it's especially good!''

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Help by the Beetles is ACTUALLY REALLY REALLY apt for this whole arc not gonna lie


	55. Nobby Leach and his ideas I

Hermione tugged at his sleeve. They wore the clothes they’d worn in Montenegro right before taking a deep dive into Tom Riddle’s mind. ’’Sir, do you know how to exit this?’’

Tom Riddle, Montgomery Goldsmith for easier orientation, was too busy staring at the young Nobby Leach. He blinked a couple of times at hearing Hermione’s voice, as if trying to emerge from a trance. ’’Excuse me?’’ Hermione tried to give him a smile, but it came up short. She was attempting to be friendly because they were both stuck in this mindscape together, with no end in sight. What differences they had (and they had plenty due to opposing political views and an abundance of war crimes scattered about Tom Riddle’s Curiculum Vitae) Hermione hoped they could put aside for the sake of the mission at hand: exiting this sick, sad, dangerous, and somewhat scary in that ’god I don’t want to end up like this’ kind of way.

’’Do you know how to find the way out?’’ Hermione repeated. Her voice rose in impatience with him. She didn’t want to think about the younger Toms and what the Darkness might be doing to them at the moment, while they wasted time trying to get on the same page. It was silly of Hermione to become so fond of the children, especially when these children weren’t even real. Hermione grabbed hold of Montgomery Goldsmith’s arm now and shook the daze out of him. ’’Think, sir. This is your mind.’’

’’This hasn’t been my mind for decades.’’

Such a worrying concept aside, Hermione refused to be deterred in her quest to leave unharmed. The tips of her hair were aflame with fiendfyre and that finally sparked some life back into her mentor. His eyebrows shot into his hairline. And here – in this space and time – he didn’t look like the snakeman of outside. No, he looked how he had in the Alastor Moody pensieve memories of the Civil War.

’’I need you to concentrate. Why are we here?’’ Exasperation shone in her voice. Hermione craned her neck upward and bared her teeth in a grievance, ’’What was so important that you had to risk everything to bring me here?’’

Montgomery Goldsmith glanced away from Hermione, finding her old news. He pulled away from her hold and trailed after Nobby Leach. Hermione followed, seeing no other alternative. The way he looked at this boy was made in reverence. As if he was regarding a remnant of a lost civilization with thoughts and ideas that were far too superior and ahead of its time for anyone currently alive capable of understanding.

Hermione really wanted to leave this place before it devoured what little left of her patience and brain cells she still had with her. ’’Are you just going to ignore me then?’’

’’No, no. I am not ignoring you.’’ Montgomery Goldsmith finally deigned to speak to Hermione. At least there was that. Hermione inhaled and exhaled out of grief for her life choices.

They followed Nobby Leach in silence. He went through some passage to get out of the Great Hall with young Tom Riddle in tow only for that Tom Riddle to disappear into thin air and for Nobby Leach to emerge into another Great Hall. This one, Hermione noted by the difference in the first years sitting up front at the tables, was a couple of years later.

Abraxas Malfoy stood out in the Great Hall, as if being shined down on by a bloody spotlight. Hermione craned her head up to see if there was a crew of Tom Riddle’s making sure these memories were top notch dramatic material. There weren’t any, much to her disappointment.

’’What’s Abraxas doing?’’

’’Handing out feathers.’’ he said this as if it were the most normal and expected occurrence.

’’Why would he do that?’’

’’Has he never given you one?’’ Montgomery asked, breaking his gaze from Leach for a moment. His eyes were the same shade of red. That didn’t seem to change, showing it to be a constant of his soulless form.

’’Lots of times. His birds drop some and he collects them and hands them out.’’ Then her eyes widened and her smile brightened up. ’’Is that what he’s doing?’’

’’Yes.’’

Nobby Leach sauntered up to Abraxas Malfoy and brightly greeted him. ’’Hello, Mr. Malfoy.’’

Abraxas blanched. Hermione had thought this unbelievable and impossible. ’’How did he become paler?’’

’’You should see Elektra Lovegood then. On a good day she’s paler than him.’’

Speaking of Lovegoods, this Elektra Lovegood character was holding hands with Thoros Nott and waving it about as if on a swing. People muttered about impropriety. Thoros looked smitten. He was. She walked past Leach and Malfoy, deciding to sit there with Thoros and watch the view.

’’Who’s that?’’

’’Thoros’ late wife.’’

’’Theodore’s mother?’’

’’Ah, no. No. That’s a bit of a complicated story. Not very relevant right now. It’s something one might read about in a short story, not a giant novel packed with too many plotlines and characters.’’

’’Right,’’ Hermione elongated the word awkwardly. She neared Abraxas to hear what he might say to Leach, already feeling ire burst through her at remembering how carelessly he tossed around a slur.

’’Listen, mudblood, I do not want to speak to you. Go away.’’

Leach faltered for only a second before pulling himself back. He adjusted his school robe and squared his shoulders properly so he didn’t slouch in front of such important people. Not far from all of this sat Tom Riddle, ignoring this whole mess by attempting to eat soup. It wasn’t any of his business what Leach did and how Leach kept irritating the purebloods.

’’I would like to request one of your lovely peacock feathers, please.’’

Abraxas choked on his own spit and laughed. He blinked a few times rapidly in quick succession. His eyes shot wide. ’’Excuse me?’’

Leach repeated in a clear and succinct voice: ’’I would like to kindly ask you if you could, please, give me one of your feathers. I heard from Septimus Weasley that you do not look at House affiliation when handing them out. Peacock feathers are very lovely, I hear. Never saw them personally up close. Would like to.’’ Then he gave Abraxas a great smile.

Abraxas Malfoy looked just about ready to faint. He clutched onto his feathers and the small box full of them with a vice-like grip now that he knew someone of weak blood might want them, if only to taint them for the rest. Quickly he pulled the box to his chest and held onto it. ’’No, I shall not be giving you any of my feathers. I only give these out to _people_. Proper people. Not **_mudbloods_**.’’

’’Is there absolutely no way I can get one?’’ Nobby Leach swayed on the balls of his feet, back fro back fro. ’’I could do you a favour for it.’’

’’I want nothing from you. There is nothing you can give me. _Leave._ ’’

Nobby Leach nodded and left, saying on his way back to the Ravenclaw table. ’’Have a wonderful day, Mr. Malfoy. Thank you for your time.’’

’’Why is he so polite?’’

’’Because if a muggleborn would ever act out or want to physically react to something they’d be branded as uncivilized and barbaric and less human. You get to be angry and curse purebloods and barge into their common room without fear of getting expelled or what have you. You have Leach and his politics and his fight to thank for your privilege.’’

Hermione remembered her last day of Hogwarts. She remembered the way her rage overcame her and that not even once did she think of what might happen if she cursed Draco Malfoy’s scheming little ferret face. A faint blush coloured her cheeks. ‘’I do not think I would have survived this version of Hogwarts.’’

‘’You would have. Around year two, you become numb to the word mudblood.’’

Hermione swore under her breath. ’’It was that bad?’’

’’It was... complicated back then. Being a halfblood was my ticket out of that social class.’’ Montgomery Goldsmith admitted painfully. ’’I would rather have been anyone to being Tom Riddle. He was… I am… a muggle raised outsider. It is much more controlled and more equal In your time than it was in mine. I have nothing more to say on that, actually. ’’

Nobby Leach went to talk to Wendell Smith from Hufflepuff. He knew a guy who knew a guy who knew one of the Twenty-Eight. ’’Oi, Smith. How are you doing, mate?’’ Nobby Leach spoke with a bit of a cockney accent. Hermione turned around for clarification.

Montgomery, a known American, told her he was from the north side of London.

’’Oh yeah, that explains it.’’

’’Good, how about you then, Leach?’’ Smith greeted Nobby amicably. They shook hands. He offered Nobby to sit with him while they ate, but Nobby declined.

’’I’ve got to run fast. Double Charms are next and Flitwick doesn’t tolerate tardiness from his own eagles.’’

’’Right, right. Merrythought skins us alive if we’re late, too. Did you need something, then?’’

’’I did, actually. Thanks for asking.’’ Nobby Leach forewent his previous words by sitting down next to Smith and conspiratorially steepling his fingers together. ’’You heard about Malfoy?’’

’’Did, indeed. He’s handing out peacock feathers.’’ Smith pulled up his own little peacock feather he’d gotten. ’’They’re rather wicked. Did you get one?’’ It was a loaded question, Wendell knew that Malfoy would rather eat his own foot than give a muggleborn anything.

’’Ah,’’ Nobby’s face fell, ’’no, no. Got the wrong blood for that sort of thing. Listen, I was going to ask you if you knew how I could get one?’’

’’Well, I know a guy.’’

’’Really?’’

’’Upperclassmen, too. Very influential. He knows a girl. She’s even more influential. But that’ll cost I’m no Red Cross myself.’’

After some negotiation Nobby Leach paid Smith thirteen knuts.

A day passed. Nobby Leach came back to see if Smith had his feather.

The price went up when Smith’s contacts learned they were going through all of this trouble for a muggleborn. Leach paid.

Another day passed.

Leach was told he had to pay some more because one of the contacts had to be bribed back with sweets and now Smith was out of an allowance.

Even then Leach paid. It all rounded up to two sickles. Which back then was a lot.

’’You really want this feather, huh?’’

Nobby Leach desperately nodded. ’’Yup.’’

’’All right.’’ Smith nodded. ’’Tomorrow, same time. You’ll have your feather.’’

The day came and Nobby Leach waved around his peacock feather. He put it in his satchel bag and carried it around with him as if it was his most prized possession. On his way through the corridors he happened upon young Tom Riddle.

’’How old were you then?’’ Hermione was seething at how much Nobby had had to go through to get one measly feather all because purebloods gave themselves the right to gate keep the world.

’’It was fourth year. Spring, I think. I was fifteen, Leach was fourteen. He turned fifteen in the summer. June 22nd.’’

’’Mate! Riddle! Hold up a moment.’’

Tom Riddle did hold up. He had a queasy expression on his face whenever Leach wanted to talk to him about things that turned too hot and too political fairly fast. It unnerved him. He was just trying to keep his head down and not cause trouble for his House. They’d finally stopped trying to usher him out of Hogwarts after seeing he kept winning them House Points. Leach kept losing Ravenclaw House Points because he turned into a destructive force that demanded to know things that no professor wanted to admit existed: like flagrant blood prejudice that was embedded in the school system and the clear favoritism to the Twenty-Eight because their family made up the Board of Governors and a platitude of influential Ministry workers.

’’Hello, Leach.’’

Leach proudly showcased his peacock feather to Tom Riddle. He waved it around. ’’Look what I got.’’

’’Congratulations. I didn’t even know you liked peacocks.’’

’’I like owls a lot. Birds. They’re rather friendly little chaps. Peacocks are big birds that look deeply disturbed. Saw a couple in the zoo when my parents took me.’’

Tom Riddle, parentless, drawled out: ’’I am happy for you.’’

Leach blushed and stammered out, remembering whom he was speaking to: ’’Er, right, no – I mean sorry – no, wait, you said not to apologize about this – sorry for apologizing – shite – bugger me, mate, you sure know how to through me out of tact.’’ He rubbed the back of his head awkwardly and let out a small, shaky laugh.

Tom Riddle gave him a weak smile back. ’’You are incorrigible, Leach. Truly.’’

Leach agreed. He waved his feather about like a victory flag. Then pointed it at Tom. ’’I noticed you missed a couple of Mudpride meetings. Feeling pressured by your housemates to stay away?’’

’’Try and place yourself in my shoes, Leach.’’ Tom’s anger seeped into his tone of voice. He sneered and glanced over to the entrance to the Great Hall, specifically catching sight of the Slytherin table. He could count on one hand how many halfbloods there were. He could count on two hands how many _muggleborns_ there were in Ravenclaw. ’’I am tired of getting woken up by bloody stinging hexes. I am tired of Walburga Black screeching at my ear every waking day, reminding me of how I am not a real wizard and that I should go back to wherever I’ve come from. There are many more things. Many worse things. They are slowly petering out. I do not want to risk them coming back up again if I go to your club.’’

’’OUR club, Riddle. I named you cofounder. Oh right, forgot to tell you! We have a little plaque now.’’

’’Please, _please_ , take my name off of that bloody thing. I will get a plaque of my very own without anything as jeopardizing to my social standing as association with mudbloods. It is bad enough I am one, but I am the only one in that horrible, useless Hou _se_.’’ He hissed, lapsing into parseltongue for a moment, panicking, and bringing it back into English. ’’Slytherin offers me nothing.’’

Nobby Leach squirmed in place, made an ’eh’ sound, and tried gesticulating with his hands that he thought Tom Riddle was very, very wrong. ’’Wouldn’t say that, personally.’’

’’Oh?’’ Bitterly the Slytherin said. He cocked up a brow and waited, crossing his arms.

Nobby Leach gestured to the Great Hall with a nod. ’’They’re rich ponces, aren’t they? Posh as they come. Posher than the King of England.’’

’’Yes. What of it then? They’ve only recently stopped sending me death threats.’’

’’All a part of being a muggleborn, mate. It is a difficult life, but change will come!’’

Tom allowed himself an eye roll.

’’They’re powerful, Tom. Much more powerful than you or I. They have money, influence, names that their family has made for them centuries ago. It’s difficult trying to be on the same playing field as them.’’ Leach waved that feather around again. ’’I spent two sickles on this thing. Had to go through different channels to get it, bribe people, pay a so-called mudblood tax, and lost days of my time organizing this. Septimus Weasley just came up and got one. Free of charge. Abraxas even gave him another one for his brother Sextus.’’

’’So?’’

’’So. How much time do you think it’ll take you to get a feather?’’ Nobby Leach’s face broke out into a grin. It was toothy and it was scheming. ’’You have direct access to Abraxas.’’

’’You have direct access to Malfoy, too.’’

’’Ah, but he doesn’t speak to mudbloods. He speaks to you because you’re from the same House.’’ Leach stopped Tom from saying anything else. ’’No, come on. Let’s do a little social experiment, then.’’

’’Reading that bloody political manifesto has made you into a fink, Leach.’’

’’Duly noted. Still, are you up for the experiment?’’

’’Do I get anything out of it?’’

’’A lovely peacock feather that you can use to write essays with?’’ Leach ran the feathery part of the feather across Tom’s face, causing him to flinch away and bat the feather in disgust. ’’But if I’m wrong and you don’t get the feather – if you have to resort to the same tactics I did, then I’ll give you some leftover sweets I’ve got from our last Hogsmeade trip. I know you have a sweet tooth.’’ Leach outstretched his hand. ’’Deal?’’

Tom, against his better judgement, shook on it.

He went over to the table where Abraxas was sititng and trying to eat a croissant while looking over notes for their Defence class. His expression was very stressed. It wasn’t a secret that Abraxas Malfoy got most of his high marks only because of his last name. The practical part wasn’t the issue, but the essays and the homework were. Letters weren’t fond of him and he seemed even less fond of them.

Abraxas lifted his tired gaze up from an essay that was littered with spelling mistakes. ’’Riddle.’’

’’Malfoy.’’ Tom Riddle replied, voice pulled back in almost a sneer. 

’’What do you want?’’

Tom Riddle shrugged. ’’Still got any of those feathers?’’

Abraxas took out a box full of them from his bag. He opened it and offered Tom Riddle the feathers without saying a word.

Tom couldn’t believe it was so easy. He took one on random and played with it by twirling it between his fingers how he often twirled his wand. ’’I’m not offering you anything in return.’’

Abraxas snorted at the audacity. He smiled that annoying way of his and drawled out: ’’Consider it a reward from your betters for doing such a gosh darn wonderful job of keeping Slytherin in the lead for the House Cup. We thank you for your service, mudblood.’’

 _’’You fucking prick.’’_ Tom Riddle hissed and thought about showing Abraxas Malfoy all of the thanks a Londoner might give such a ponce, but he didn’t. Because he wanted to stay in this school and get an education and not go back to the orphanage. He would put up with all of these snide remarks, knowing one day that they would all wish they had been nicer.

When Tom returned to Leach he waved the feather and said: ’’Here, I got it.’’

 _’’See._ Slytherin gives you a lot more privilege and influence than our Houses give us. Most of the Twenty-Eight is in Slytherin. You’re in Slytherin. Ergo, due to close-range proximity most of them talk to you. Meaning, that most of them will bargain with you. Meaaaning,’’ Leach’s eyebrows danced up and down – it was very unflattering, Tom didn’t know why he found it endearing, ’’you are clever and they – they really do not even know how to make themselves a sandwich. Their elves do everything for them. You and I, mate, we’ve got a certain degree of brain power that they clearly will never have, especially not while they’re trapped in those social bubbles. Think of them as sheep rolling around in their money.’’

Nobby Leach placed a hand on Tom’s shoulder and pulled him close so they could whisper together without being overheard: ’’Do you really think, and _now_ we’re talking Londoner to Londoner, okay – do you really think that you can’t play them? You really think the smartest wizard of our age can’t pull the wool of their eyes?’’

And Tom Riddle thought. For the first time since coming to Hogwarts that he could turn this around. A smile played across his lips. It wasn’t bitter, no – it was **_ambitious_**. He looked down at the feather in his hand and vowed that he would take advantage of his standing from this day on.

Nobby Leach slapped him good naturedly on the back. ’’You don’t have to come to the Mudpride meetings. I know you’re one of us. But, please, as a friend of yours, don’t make me watch as they bleed you dry. You have a lot more power than you even realise, Tom.’’

Tom nodded, believing Leach for the first time. The feather was proof enough. ’’I do, don’t I?’’

* * *

’’Oh god the birth of little Voldemort.’’ Hermione let out a horrified, inarticulate sound. She looked to her mentor, who shrugged and just sort of agreed with the sentiment.

’’It wasn’t until our OWL year that I actually got the name from my anagram, but – I did actively plot my rise to power since this conversation.’’

’’Oh my god.’’ Hermione placed her head in her hands. ’’Minister Nobby Leach, what the fuck?’’

’’Well.’’ Montgomery Goldsmith said, having no other word left in his arsenal of vocabulary.

’’Wait, does this mean that if you hadn’t had this conversation with Leach you never would have become Lord Voldemort and that it’s our only muggleborn Minister for Magic that can directly be held culpable for your rise to power and subsequent civil war?’’

’’You are severely overthinking this, Hermione.’’

’’Why are you friends with Abraxas at all if he was such a prick to you?!’’

’’Well...I don’t expect you to understand what it was like to be under Walburga Black’s heel, for which you ought to be glad. I do not wish knowing her on even my worst enemies. It was either her way or no way at all. Thank the gods she’s dead-’’

’’Oh yeah, no, no. She came back to life.’’

The sound that came out of her mentor’s mouth then... this sound was a very scared, very tired sound.

* * *

Their next memory to peruse consisted of Abraxas Malfoy holding onto a parchment roll and practically embedding it into his chest. His silver eyes were frightened and shocked as he opened and closed his mouth multiple times in a short time span. ‘’Oh fuck.’’ This was most distressing, as well, because sixteen-year-old Abraxas Malfoy did not curse. Ever. He would only later find the taste for it after life dealt him one too many shite hands. 

’’What?’’ OWL year Tom Riddle hissed. He held onto a parchment roll which had an array of As and one O on it. Hermione walked over to this Tom and read that the parchment belonged to Abraxas Malfoy. They were his OWL results, which meant that Abraxas was holding onto Tom’s. 

’’Now, Tom, Riddle, friend, fellow house inhabitant –’’

’’What is it, Malfoy?’’ Tom’s voice went up. It cracked with worry and anger both. Puberty wasn’t an easy thing to go through when one was a budding Dark Lord. ’’Out with it!’’

Abraxas flinched. He fumbled for a moment before ultimately deciding not to tell Tom Riddle his OWL scores. His long feet kicked off into a sprint. And because he wasn’t an academic prodigy and he would rather cut his own arm off than read for fun (what with not being able to read that well because of society’s high expectations on him, his self-hatred, and his ignorance about having dyslexia) he had taken to sports and quidditch and was much more fit than Tom Riddle was. 

OWL Tom Riddle sprinted after him. But, because he was out for blood because his grades were in jeapordy, it didn’t take him long to tackle him. Once he tackled him down through sheer willpower and magic, Tom grabbed a hold of his results and looked at them. Most people would have screamed, causing the whole world to wonder about what went wrong. Tom Riddle was not most people. He didn’t like other people to bother themselves with his business. So, when he saw his restuls all he did was get off of Abraxas Malfoy, dust himself off, fold back his OWL results, and then went for a very passionate stroll towards the Forest.

Abraxas followed after him, worried what he might do.

Once inside the forest, Tom Riddle just screamed for a good minute.

Nobby Leach popped his head out from behind some trees. ‘’Did you fail too?’’ He was much too happy about this for his own good.

Tom Riddle, faced with such nauseating positivity, screamed again.

Abraxas demanded to know why Leach was just waiting for Tom in the forest. Leach beamed. ‘’This is our spot. We come here to collude. Don’t you and Walburga Black have a similar spot near the lake?’’

‘’I… I suppose.’’

After some coaxing, Nobby Leach held onto Tom’s results and clucked his tongue. ‘’Oh, come on. You ought to be happy. Look, you got the bare minimum necessary to pass. Sullivan and the rest of us all failed.’’

Abraxas kept repeating everything Tom had told him prior to opening their test results. ‘’Marks don’t fine your worth. You are much beyond what some silly paper says. Your whole life doesn’t hinge on –‘’

Tom Riddle looked how a killer did. Mostly because he was one. ‘’I only said those things to you because you are rich and privileged and you will NEVER know what it is like to actually need an education and high marks. THIS –‘’ His hands were shaking as he rattled the parchment with his test results. ‘’THIS IS MY LIFE NOW.’’

Abraxas was forced to leave the premises when Tom Riddle got his wand out and threatened to kill him if he had to look at his face for even one more moment. He allowed Leach to stay because he was in the same boat. Tom, then, having never experienced such a drastic betrayal to his own intellect, fell to the snowy ground in the forest, looked up, and bemoaned. ‘’I did something bad,’’ ie kill Myrtle Warren, ‘’and this is the Universe getting back at me.’’

‘’God works in mysterious ways.’’

‘’This isn’t God’s work. This is Satan’s and he’s having fun with it, too, that fucking CUNT.’’ Tom Riddle wheezed out. ‘’Oh _s_ weet Je _sus_ , my life is over.’’ His breathing accelerated. Tom Riddle’s next big revelation was that he was having a heart attack. Nobby gently corrected him and told him it was probably a panic attack. Tom tried to breathe and say through the pain cascading through him that this was definitely closer to a heart attack.

‘’No, I read somewhere that children can’t have heart attacks.’’

‘’I haven’t been a child since I was five years old!’’ Untreated mental illness and trauma spoke through Tom Riddle. For a very brief moment he almost felt catharsis. But then, his anxiety and his panic attack overwhelmed him and he passed out.

Nobby Leach regretted not having tall and buff Abraxas Malfoy nearby to carry Tom Riddle’s twig body to the Castle. It was cold outside like a bitch. He cast a warming charm on Tom’s now much calmer body and sat down next to him to wait this out.

When Tom woke up, he was a lot less panicky. Slowly he blinked, like a dazed cat. ‘’You have an idea.’’

If there was one thing that Tom Riddle could attest to without deliberation was this: Nobby Leach and his ideas were always ready to change the world and save the day.

‘’Yup.’’ Leach popped the p. ‘’Come to our MUDpride meeting tonight, same place as always, same time as always.’’

‘’I forgot the place and the time.’’ Tom Riddle’s head was swimming in a lot of chemicals. His own, his brain’s, but they made him feel like he was having a bit of an out of body experience. Like his body was lighter than his mind and thus his mind was sinking and sinking and sinking deeper and deeper into an abyss from whence Tom Riddle, with his pathetic OWLs scores, would never manage to get out of.

‘’Ever since you took up with the purebloods you did stop coming round. Never mind, though. I understand. Third floor. Classroom twenty-five. Six in the evening.’’

Tom vaguely nodded. ‘’I will be there.’’ Leach helped him stand up. He still felt wobbly. ‘’You won’t tell anyone about this?’’

‘’Not if you come.’’

Tom gave him an acidic smile. ‘’Look at you. You learned what blackmail is. I’m _proud_ , Leach.’’

Leach chuckled. It softened Tom’s expression.

* * *

’’Who was in charge of the OWLs examinations during your time?’’ Her mentor asked.

Hermione tilted her head to the side, musing aloud. ’’I didn’t check. Probably someone from the Ministry, it is their jurisdiction.’’

’’Ours was Violeta Black, for frame of reference.’’

’’Why is this relevant?’’

’’It shouldn’t be,’’ Tom cracked a morose smile, ’’but you’ll understand in a bit. I know what this next memory is about.’’

* * *

Walburga Black’s screech of victory made Tom Riddle think that six couldn’t come sooner.

She’d gotten all Os. ’’AND I DIDN’T EVEN STUDY, HA HA! THIS IS ALL THANKS TO PUREBLOOD PROWESS, OF COURSE! RIDDLE – HELLO, **_RIDDLE_** – HOW MUCH DID _YOU_ GET?’’

He stabbed the dinner table with a fork. Avery, sitting exactly next to Tom Riddle, wisely said nothing. He merely slid away graciously.

* * *

During the Mudpride meeting there was a lot of yelling. It was the outrage that rattled through them all, horrified as they were to be singled out like this. Among the muggleborns (mudbloods as Leach insisted they call themselves in order to take back the word from the bigots) one could find a couple of misfits who weren’t mudbloods themselves, but had the misfortune of having a mudblood surname because their father happened to be either a muggle, a squib, or a muggleborn.

‘’This is slander!’’ Thomas Williams said. He was Prefect of Hufflepuff House and a Prewett by his mother’s side. Next to him, Mandy Sullivan was gnawing at the end of her quill’s feather. ‘’They cannot do this to us, Leach! It is unfair and unprecedented to do this!’’

Tom Riddle was notably the only Slytherin. Because the halfbloods of Slytherin had the ‘common decency’ to be either change their names before coming to Hogwarts or to have their father be of good stock with a proud surname to boast. He, unlike Mandy, found that tapping along a table irritably was much preferable to eating his quill.

Everybody had taken their chairs and made a circle. Leach had taken a lot from his father, who happened to be a pastor. When Leach spoke he was emulating his father a lot. Not many people could tell, but Tom could. He’d grown up with the Church having an active influence. Mrs. Cole brought them to Mass and for confession often. Tom Riddle, wisely, lied during them. When he’d been honest once the priest had implied the need for exorcism. So, no, it wasn’t that Tom Riddle had a positive relationship with religion. Nothing how Leach did. He brimmed with it.

‘’These are definitely difficult times we are a part of and for that we ought to act with caution.’’

‘’You mean the war with Grindelwald?’’ Thomas Williams rolled his eyes and snorted at the phrase. ‘’We are perfectly safe here. Hogwarts is the safest place in the whole of the United Kingdom.’’

‘’Or, how about the muggle war?’’ Cohen said, Prefect for Ravenclaw and a bit of an overachiever. ‘’That is still a thing, the last time I checked.’’ She wore a grim line on her face. ‘’My parents still have not heard of my results.’’

‘’Isn’t it better to, under the circumstances, be more grateful that you are alive than think about your grades?’’ Leach tried to help Cohen out. He failed spectacularly.

She scoffed at him. ‘’You have not met many Jewish parents, have you, Leach?’’

‘’All Protestant on my side, I’m afraid.’’ Leach winked and placed a hand over his chest.

Cohen smiled. She shook her head and embedded her elbows on her thighs as she looked straight ahead of herself to note how tightly wound Tom Riddle was. He had not come to these meetings in a while. There were many more members usually, from different years, but this meeting specifically was called for the Fifth years.

‘’We all agree, right, that we were targeted specifically because of our blood?’’ Mandy Sullivan was a woman of action and she called it forth. ‘’We must do whatever we have to in order to fix this. Williams, your mother could write someone important, couldn’t she?’’

‘’Bold of you to assume, Leach, that she isn’t writing every single person she knows to pray tell about this outrage.’’ Williams stood proudly. He looked at the rest of the muggleborns and halfbloods wallowing in their anguish and told them. ‘’Stop being useless and help us think of a strategy. We must get the teachers involved, as well. They will have to pave the path for our owls. If we have to write the bloody Minister, we shall do it!’’

A few shouts of approval filled the room. Tom Riddle was not among them. Neither was Leach. He stood up to get everyone’s attention then and to calm them all down before they took their wands up and decided to take names. ‘’You are all completely right to feel betrayed by our world.’’

‘’Our world?’’ Cohen breathed out shakily. ‘’There is no our world.’’

‘’You naïve, naïve lunatic. This is not our world. This is the world of the Blacks, the Malfoys, the Lestranges, the Averys, and the rest of the Twenty-Eight. This is not our world.’’ Mandy Sullivan was not afraid to speak up against Leach, even at times when they agreed. Even then she wanted to see how he would react to adversity.

Tom Riddle remained silent on the matter. He observed Leach clinically now. It was interesting to watch someone born outside of power wielding it. And Leach was respected by the people present at this meeting. He was the one that they were all going to go to for help and for guidance. They believed in him and his capabilities. And Leach, well, Leach looked just about ready to do anything to get what he believed in with all of his heart and mind and spirit.

‘’That will send a difficult message.’’ He explained. ‘’If we get everyone involved like Williams suggests, it will only lead to further inquiries and it will take away the Ministry from helping the war effort. Resources, as we’ve all seen in the Prophet, are not to be ill-distributed.’’

‘’I don’t bloody understand a thing you’re saying.’’ One of the Gryffindors muttered. Riddle didn’t know her by name. He just recognized her vaguely as someone he’d seen out of his peripheral vision.

‘’He’s English, English isn’t his native language.’’ Mandy joked.

‘’Ha, ha’’ Nobby Leach rolled his eyes at the bad joke. ‘’Very funny.’’ But then he did explain what he meant, ‘’They’ll spin it on us the minute they see that we are trying to get the wide world involved in our strife. It is obvious they targeted us based on blood. If we, however, try and attack a system head on without knowing how to play it, we will ultimately fail and be worse off than if we paid for our second OWL try.’’

* * *

‘’Wait, you paid for OWLs back then?’’

‘’The first time no. If you failed them, you had to pay. Another reason why they failed us was to get money from the Ministry.’’

‘’Tragic.’’ Hermione’s hair was flickering from fiendfyre red to normal brown. ‘’Horrid. Despicable.’’

‘’Yes.’’

* * *

‘’What do you suggest we do then?’’ Tom Riddle inquired. When he spoke everyone, also, grew quiet. He was considered the brightest wizard of their age. Soon, perhaps, even the brightest mind of Hogwarts.

‘’Well, I do have a plan that will involve every single one of us agreeing that we won’t take the second OWLs.’’ Nobby Leach said.

Murmurs of fear filtered through the room. ‘’But, but we failed? We cannot just agree to fail our OWLs. It isn’t right. My parents. Our parents. I cannot. The audacity!’’

Tom Riddle, penniless, didn’t want to scrounge up what little money he had to pay for an exam he was robbed of. ‘’I agree with Leach’s plan.’’ And if Tom Riddle, biggest bloody overachiever was in, then everyone followed suit.

‘’Do you even know what it is?!’’

‘’Not really.’’ Tom Riddle shrugged. He had ingested a calming drought before this. Courtesy of trauma-prone Abraxas Malfoy, who whenever he remembered his OWL examinations burst into tears. ‘’But I trust this plan more than Williams’.’’ The very last thing Tom Riddle needed was to be put on the spot and have his failures broadcasted.

Nobby Leach grinned like a very smug little shark when he began telling them his ingenious plan.

* * *

Hermione broke into a giggle. ‘’You can’t really be serious?’’

‘’Look. It worked.’’

‘’You can’t be serious!’’

‘’No, no, look for yourself. It worked like a charm, Hermione.’’

‘’No way!’’

* * *

The thing about OWLs for Tom Riddle’s warren generation was that it was much safer and easier to conduct OWL examinations during winter break. Ergo, they continued with classes normally after it. Their OWLs were finished, but their Fifth year still wasn’t.

During Defence class, Tom Riddle raised his hand to ask a question. Professor Merrythought prepared herself for whatever masterful inquiry was about to come from someone extremely educated and intelligent. ‘’Yes, Mr. Riddle. Do you have a question?’’

Tom Riddle nodded his head. He shattered Merrythought’s expectations swiftly and painfully. ‘’Professor Merrythought, could you explain to me how the Expeliarmus spell works. I don’t seem to quite know what the incantation is.’’

‘’You do not know…what the incantation is… for Experliarmus.’’ Merrythought had to check. She said it very slowly, waiting for anyone to tell her this was a sick prank. It was a first year spell, damn it. Nobody was saying a thing. None of the Slytherins knew how to react to this. Abraxas was staring at Tom Riddle, his mouth agape. Walburga was choking on her own spit.

‘’The Ministry obviously deems my knowledge insufficient.’’ Tom Riddle said. ‘’I would like to better learn the material, professor. I would never dream of saying your teaching methods are unsuccessful, ergo, the problem must be in my preparation.’’ He smiled, then.

And Merrythought spent this entire class explaining to Tom Riddle the Expelliarmus spell. Then she had to explain to Cohen how one could defend themselves against a vampire. Then to Leach who swore up and down that he had absolutely fuck all clue (not these exacts words, but the sentiment was definitely there) about how to deflect a confoundus spell.

When she asked them if this was a prank, all three of them said gravely: ‘’No, professor, of course not. We would never think to make your job **_harder_**.’’

* * *

Slughorn blinked like an old, old owl. Which was a bit funny given how he wasn’t that old to begin with in this era. He asked, quietly: ‘’Come again, dear?’’

Mandy Sullivan, one of his brighter students, had raised her hand and asked, bluntly: ‘’What is a bezoar, professor?’’

‘’A bezoar?’’ Slughorn almost choked on the word. He had wanted to give Mandy Sullivan more difficult potions to brew for him, even, to lighten his load. This… this was terrifying to have to explain.

He looked to his Gryffindor and Hufflepuff class and asked, barely audibly in fear of what the answer would be: ‘’Who else does not know what a bezoar is… in their fifth year of potions?’’

A good half raised their hands.

* * *

Dumbledore looked at Septimus Weasley as if he’d grown three heads. He was the first pureblood to jump onto the bandwagon and decide that looking like an idiot paid off if one did it to fight obvious injustice. ‘’Mr. Weasley, I am afraid that I do not understand. Could you repeat that, please?’’

‘’I asked if you could give me the transfiguration alphabet again. You see, I had this on my OWLs and my answer had to be unsatisfactory if they gave me such a score. Here I am, however, and I’d like to rectify my mistake by prepping more.’’ He beamed.

Dumbledore nodded and explained.

But no.

No.

They weren’t satisfied. More hands went up. All of them from his House. So he couldn’t take points for breathing wrong.

Whoever had orchestrated this student rebellion knew exactly how to do it.

* * *

Flitwick, what with being a very chaotic person himself, preferred joining in on his students’ escapades. He was the first professor that said: ‘’Is there any way I can help?’’

And it was only in such a House could an individual like Nobby Leach thrive. He grinned at his favourite professor, his Head of House, and said: ‘’Yes, as a matter of fact, you can definitely help us from the inside.’’

‘’Inside?’’ Flitwick’s eyes glinted with an evil, evil glint. ‘’I think I know exactly what you mean, Mr. Leach.’’

‘’Thank you ever so much, Professor Flitwick. Your students depend on you.’’

* * *

‘’What did Flitwick do?’’

‘’I actually think he gave Leach a memory of the event. Maybe I’ve still got it around.’’

* * *

Filius Flitwick, what with him being a professor and a chaotic person, knew exactly what to say in order to strike the fear of students in the hearts of all professors around him. They were in the teacher’s lounge drinking coffee (Dumbledore, Merrythought, Slughorn, Hooch, and Flitwick) when Flitwick said, nonchalantly, on the way: ‘’Mr. Weasley asked me if we could hold _remedial lessons_ for all of the students who are going to be retaking their OWLs.’’

Merrythought choked on her black coffee. She soon added a little bit of her Irish heritage to it, just to survive.

Dumbledore looked like fighting Gellert Grindelwald seemed preferable to this. He was very pale.

Slughorn buried his head in his hands and bemoaned. ‘’No, no, no no. They cannot make us do this, can they? What is wrong with them, Filius? Have they gone mad, truly? Have I gone mad?’’ He sounded near tears. If not already crying.

Hooch, having no touching points with the OWLs, just grinned and sipped her coffee gleefully.

But Merrythought decided that if this sort of behaviour continued from the students she was going to be having words with Armando Dippet, the then Headmaster of Hogwarts. ‘’I will walk!’’ She was close to retirement. ‘’I will leave right this instant!’’

‘’They cannot have done this badly on their examinations…’’ Dumbledore held onto hope. ‘’They are bright children, Filius. Aren’t they?’’

‘’Incredibly bright. Incredibly non Twenty-Eight.’’ Filius Flitwick said and watched the horror and realisation dance in the eyes of every present Head of House. Merrythought cursed, loudly. She was too old to curse under her breath.

Slughorn sighed, deeply. ‘’I thought the war was outside of these walls.’’

‘’Violetta Black brought it inside them.’’ Filius said. ‘’And the students are replying.’’

* * *

Tom Riddle had the most chance of making this succeed. He was the smartest and therefore they put him in the first lines against the professor’s scrutiny because, until this point, until this year, he had only truly asked questions if he didn’t understand them.

He raised his hand during Arithmancy. This was a class that Walburga Black did not take. Ergo, it was a class where more purebloods would prove better inclined to support their fight against injustice when they couldn’t be seen.

The Arithmancy professor blinked one eye then the other eye at Tom Riddle. She was an odd one. It was the only way people could explain why she loved Abraxas Malfoy the most out of all of her students. She spoke slowly. ‘’Yes, Mr. Riddle… what is it that you are wondering about?’’

‘’I have a few questions about the core principles of Arithmancy.’’

The Arithmancy professor nodded. She turned her back to Tom Riddle and began writing down a problem for them to attempt to predict. Tom Riddle waited. And waited. And waited. She had caught on and therefore chose not to answer any questions from the non-purebloods about material from third year and fourth year. Only relevant material deserved acknowledgement. Tom Riddle fumed. He held tightly onto his quill and wrote down the problem she was setting out before them diligently.

Abraxas Malfoy, who sat next to him, sweated in place. He wasn’t the type of person ever to support a mudblood cause, especially not if Walburga Black was against it. And she was stil his betrothed at the time. Abraxas fretted not only for his life, but for his damned peafowl’s lives, as well.

But.

He had never found someone like Tom to be fond of before now. And these butterflies that churned in his stomach rattled him so much. Tentatively, reluctantly, Abraxas Malfoy raised his arm in the air, cleared his throat, and inquired: ‘’Professor, I have a question.’’

Hearing the enchanting and unusually genius voice of Abraxas Malfoy, the Arithmancy professor turned around sharply. She held a chalk in her hand and inhaled. ‘’Yes, Mr. Malfoy? What is it that you would like to ask?’’

Abraxas Malfoy had all eyes on him. Tom Riddle’s burned the hottest. Maybe it had to do with the person burning holes in him, to begin with. Tom Riddle, in Abraxas’ humble and incredibly queer opinion, was very, very hot. Scorching, even, one might say. Deliciously scorching. Terribly burning. Molten hot. All of the adjectives to describe hotness.

His Adam’s apple bobbed along uneasily. Abraxas’ hands sweated. The professor’s eyes peered deeply into his silver. She repeated: ‘’Mr. Malfoy, do you have a question?’’

Abraxas nodded. Barely. Almost unnoticeably. He would only ask this for the sake of his fondness for Tom Riddle. Let it be known. Wait. Actually. No. Walburga would skin him alive if he asked this. She would. She definitely would. His voice wobbled and he put down his hand, saying: ‘’I’ve got a question about today’s lesson…’’

And just like that… the classroom returned to normal. All of the bated breaths from the non-purebloods turned to disappointment. Abraxas Malfoy would not prove to be the first Slytherin, the first important and influential and rich Twenty-Eight to help Nobby Leach and his ideas.

Tom Riddle’s lips twitched down in a sneer.

* * *

‘’Who was the first?’’ Hermione asked.

‘’Lord Zephyr Avery Sr.’’ Her mentor easily replied. ‘’He owed me.’’

* * *

Lord Zephyr Avery Sr. used to be called Miss Willow Avery. He, of course, had a problem with this. Avery dropped a bag of galleons on Tom Riddle’s work table and said: ‘’I want you to brew me a potion to be a man. Correction,’’ he said before Tom Riddle could get a single word in: "I am a man, already, but I want to _look_ like one finally.’’

There were rumours that started at the beginning of Tom Riddle’s fifth year that said he went to the Forest (not forbidden then, merely mildly disallowed) to brew absinthe. These were all fallacies. He went to the Forest to brew illicit potions for purebloods for money. 

Tom Riddle had no idea about absinthe, so for posterity's sake he had involved a man whose father and grandfather and great-grandfather brewed absinthe for fun: Nobby Leach. He had taught him enough in order to cover up his illicit tracks. 

So, if anyone asked Tom Riddle for absinthe he would be able to give them a fairly accurate explanation and sell them a bottle made by the Leach family. It was a sound business strategy, all things considered. How Leach managed to smuggle in so many bottles, on the other hand, was the real Hogwarts mystery. 

Avery was a regular. And as a regular did, regularly, he returned for a regular check up, so to speak...regularly. Tom Riddle on the other hand wasn’t feeling much like his regular self. Therefore the regularity of their meeting turned… irregular. 

They exchanged galleons and potions and then, when it was time to exchange words, Tom Riddle wasn’t quite the same fellow that he usually was when he dominated academically and got credit for his stellar academic work. ‘’I am cutting your supply if you do not join the cause.’’ 

The affability drawn across Avery’s face fell away. He sneered and took a step forward, clutching the potion bottle neatly to his chest. He aimed his index finger at Tom Riddle and sneered: ‘’You do not get to do that. You know that I do not choose to be serviced by a mudblood if I did not have to.’’ 

‘’Eileen Prince brews whatever you want for a price.’’ This was true, too. But she was not discreet how Tom Riddle was. Eileen Prince, if she didn’t like a person very much, had the gravitas go go to their parents and tell them what their child was up to. She was a pureblood and she was respected and Avery did not need that threat and blackmail dangled above his head. If Tom Riddle attempted to say anything to Avery’s parents, said parents would threaten him with violence for daring to besmirch the loyal Avery name. 

‘’You know she’s a little bint.’’ Avery crossed his arms. Being dormmates with her for years ought to be enough to form one’s opinon of another person’s character. Tom Riddle, for example, knew that Thoros Nott was whipped both by Abraxas Malfoy and Elektra Lovegood. It had to be a fairy thing. The man simply couldn’t say no to either of them. Avery sneered, again: ‘’This is bad business, Riddle. I know you’re pissed off that the Ministry isn’t fascinated by your brain, but you ought to keep some professional integrity intact. Remember,’’ Avery raised and lowered his brows here as he finished drinking his potion, ‘’you don’t bite the hand that feeds you.’’

‘’Exactly.’’ Riddle pointed at the potion. ‘’I hold more ground when it comes to this.’’ 

‘’Walburga Black holds more ground when it comes to all Slytherin affairs. Not understanding this, five years into our Hogwarts life is very ignorant of you, Riddle.’’ Avery turned around on his heel and left, fuming with each step. He saw Nobby Leach going to the Forst and knocked him hard with his shoulder. 

Nobby Leach looked from disgruntled Avery to disasterous Riddle and concluded that they needed to rework how they were going to be approaching the purebloods. And they needed the purebloods in order to get this to work. The Gryffindors didn’t count. They were blodtraitors and too modern and too buddy-buddy. Ravenclaws counted but they were diplomats who waited for the Slytherins. The Hufflepuffs were mostly halfbloods and muggleborns and the few purebloods that were in that House said that that it wouldn’t be a good idea to be in the spotlight like that. Sullivan said that all hardwork and fairness was valued in Hufflepuff, blood was valued more. 

‘’Fuck Avery.’’ Nobby Leach finally said when he saw Tom Riddle counting his knuts and galleons. 

‘’He’s not my type, Leach.’’ Tom Riddle scoffed, well aware of what Leach was actually saying. But when uncomfortable by life he made jokes, even bad ones like that one. 

Nobby Leach gagged slightly. ‘’Do not even joke about something like that. It isn’t natural.’’

Tom nodded to that. None of this was natural by Mrs. Cole’s standards. Relgion meant nothing to him anymore. Leach, in his not so humble opinion, was an idiot for still believing in God and the works. ‘’What do you want, Leach?’’

‘’Right, right,’’ Leach jumped into a longwinded spiel about their next course of action. 

Tom Riddle wished that the ground would open and swallow him whole.

* * *

Their assault on the professors continued.

* * *

Septimus Weasley raised his hand and threatened to poke the eyes out of the professors out if they didn’t call on him to ask for the umpteenth time what the proper way to bow in a duel was.

Nobby Leach became the least appreciated student in the professor’s eyes (save for Flitwick, whose fondness for Leach only grew the more the wizard fought and rallied the school together under a unified battle)

Tom Riddle still played angles with the Slytherins and none of them wanted to help. He burned holes into the back of Avery’s head. Avery narrowed his eyes back at him and told him to stop harassing him. Tom had to admit that he may have been too bold the previous time they’d spoken. He ought to catch more flies with honey, after all.

They walked side by side back to their Common Room. Tom Riddle offered to carry Avery’s book bag. He glared at him and said that he could handle a book bag just fine, thank you. ‘’I am not made out of glass, Riddle.’’

‘’You are too headstrong for someone made of glass, yes.’’

Avery didn’t dignify this with a response. He picked up pace and Tom Riddle matched it. ‘’I realize I have crossed a line earlier.’’

‘’No shit.’’ Avery said, peeved. He clutched the sash to his book bag tightly and looked ahead, not deigning to look into Tom Riddle’s somewhat different eyes. Something had changed and it could be felt in the air around him. Something that didn’t have to do with OWL results. ‘’Have you come to apologize?’’

‘’Our regular potions are back. You bring the money and the supplies and I brew it for you as per usual.’’

‘’That is not an apology.’’

‘’My apology is offering to brew you more permanent solutions. I have looked into it (Leach had, in actuality) and there are different potions.’’

‘’That if I took, my parents would notice it and disown me. No, thank you.’’

‘’Keep it in mind, then, for when you are able to go through with it.’’ Tom called out. ‘’You have a brewer in me.’’

Avery regarded him weirdly, not being able to piece together what exactly Tom Riddle’s goal in all of this was. He had begun brewing potions much before this OWL thing had gone down. Avery nodded his head then and whispered: ‘’Calling yourself my brewer and not my friend is interesting.’’

Tom Riddle’s face fell. It darkened. ‘’No, we are not friends.’’

Avery scoffed out a smile. ‘’ _Good._ Maybe this distance will prove useful to you so you will not make such remarks anymore.’’

* * *

The Divination professor was the first to crack. She wailed during class and called them all monsters who were going to send her to her death. It was just in line with what anyone expected a Divination professor to say.

Cohen had broken her after the umpteenth time she’d asked a banal question about writing down dreams. ‘’Is it any different if I write down my dreams with a pencil?’’

‘’No,’’ the professor had answered and returned to divine the future from tea leaves.

Only to be asked this same question time and time again during the same class.

‘’Kind of funny,’’ Cohen later said, ‘’that she did not _see_ this question coming.’’

The greatest tragedy was that no one congratulated her on her marvelous joke.

* * *

The worst came for Merrythought when a trail of OWL year students began following her outside of class to ask her questions. Tom Riddle, the traitor, even initiated an idea how if professor Merrythought didn’t have the time to answer questions outside of class, she could tell them a time and place for remedial lessons.

Which was a workload no professor ever wanted to take up.

Merrythought placed a horrified hand across her chest and made a grave error that, in retrospect she’d realise was a pretty manifesting thing that had happened: ‘’I’d rather _fight **fairies**_.’’

* * *

Their time was running out. Soon the applications for the second OWL examinations was going to be among them.

Nobby Leach asked if anyone had any money to start bribing people with.

‘’I’m not going to bribe _rich people_ to be decent _human beings._ ’’ Mandy Sullivan said. Her sensibility and reason kept shining throughout this entire thing.

Tom Riddle said that the purebloods didn’t want their money. ‘’They want to get things that they usually can’t because they’re too holier than thou about it.’’

‘’For example?’’

‘’There is nothing that we can offer them if they are still scared of Walburga Black and what she might tell their parents.’’

‘’Work on Avery then.’’

‘’Work on some Ravenclaws.’’ Tom Riddle shot back. As if were easy to work on Slytherins when they didn’t see him worth holding conversation with. Abraxas Malfoy liked him, but he was a _coward_.

Tom Riddle went back to speaking with Avery, hating every waking minute of Avery’s arrogance. One day, oh one day – and that day would come soon – he would show them all what Lord Voldemort was capable of.

* * *

Finally, the first Slytherin to do anything was Avery. He raised his hand during Transfiguration, feeling emboldened to do so. Walburga happened to be absent due to stomach pains. It was the only opportunity the Cause had of any pureblood doing anything. ‘’Sir, I have a question.’’

That sentence had become the most dreaded sentence in Hogwarts. Albus Dumbledore hadn’t yet invented his twinkles, so he stared in abject horror at Avery and whispered, fearing for his life and his yearning for tenure. ‘’Yes, Miss Avery?’’

He twitched at the title. ‘’Can you explain to me how you just don’t choke on a mandrake leaf during an animagus trial? It’s always fascinated me.’’

‘’Well, Miss Avery, thank you for posing a reasonable question, but I must admit that you are wrong. It is not a mandrake leaf. It is a-‘’

And that was when the rest of class learned one fundamental thing that made purebloods differ from the rest of them: audacity. Avery raised his brows at being told he was wrong and had said something false. He crossed his arms and glared fiercely at Dumbledore. ‘’Sir,’’ there was no politeness in this title, only annoyance, ‘’I know that I am right. I wrote it _exactly_ like that on my OWLs and I scored _perfectly_.’’ Then everyone realized that there was a second side of this OWL nightmare. That there were students who hadn’t studied, who had no idea of the material at hand, but had their names and influence that got them high, high scores. Avery was not one of those people. He had studied, the poor boy. But who he was referencing here was somebody whose name shouldn’t be uttered. Someone who was luckily absent. Someone who had, against all reason, earned the highest scores in Hogwart’s history: Walburga **Black**.

Dumbledore spent the whole class arguing with Avery. He wouldn’t budge. The hope that his students knew anything and that he had successfully imparted knowledge onto them faded.

Albus Dumbledore broke that day. And Tom Riddle knew he was going to keep Avery close. It was something not even he had ever accomplished.

* * *

Merrythought held a meeting in the teacher’s lounge. She was the oldest professor and had the most authority. Headmaster Dippet wasn’t present because he was off in his own world, uncaring for the events that were transpiring between professors and students in this roundabout game of cat and mouse. And Merrythought had had enough. She crossed her arms and glared fiercely. ’’What are we going to do about this?’’

Filius said: ‘’Help them and stop beating around the bush about the blatant blood prejudice? This generation is the only one I feel that has made such a unified front about it. My gods, Galatea, these young ones might even change the world if they set their mind to it."

* * *

"Oh yes. Civil War. Such a wonderful change." Hermione cheekily commented.

"Watch it." He couldn't even muster enough strength to be reprimanding and cross. It just sounded sad.

* * *

Merrythought looked at Dumbledore then and said: "Are you going to support me?"

Dumbledore, who'd fairly recently become Deputy headmaster, did not know whether or not rocking this boat was going to earn him favours in life. He began to sweat. "You know I have nothing but utmost respect for you, Galatea."

"Peh." Merrythought said. "You are useless and not worth my time. If i knew all of those years ago that you would be this much of a coward I never would have hired you on."

Whipped by her words, Dumbledore quickly amended: "well, well. Professor Merrythought, no, you simply misunderstood. I was not speaking clearly. I meant to say that we must approach this carefully is all."

Filius booed him. Slughorn said that this had truly gone on long enough and that for the sake of their own sanity they needed to see those tests in person. "Riddle does not deserve those marks." This was much easier to say than to actually dare say: Walburga does not deserve those marks. But it was fine, the rest of the professors understood him well enough. 

They soon came to the conclusion that they needed to get Dippet involved because this had truly gone on long enough. 

* * *

They cornered Dippet in his office and nearly drew their wands on him. 

"I am paying as much as I have the ability to." Dippet said, unprompted. 

"This isn't about our pays!" Merrythought shouted. Dippet instantly relaxed when he knew his finances would not be touched. "This is about the children and their bleeding OWL results!" 

Dippet grew uncomfortable as quickly as he had relaxed. "Oh no." he had expected something like this to happen. But not this soon. Dumbledore looked to be on the side of the faculty and it irritated Dippet immensely to have entrusted the Deputy position to him then. You never seemed to know where you stood with Dumbledore. If he ever became Headmaster, Hogwarts would not know what hit her.

"What do you want me to do about it? You know the Ministry conducts all of the examinations and marking. We have nothing to do with them."

Merrythought's wand tip glowed green. "We want to now. We have to see them. Because something has erred terribly, Armando!" 

Dippet looked at the tip of the wand and sighed a sigh of a man who did not like administration. He was in his 400s. All of this looked like a giant temper tantrum to him. Even though the parties present were well into adulthood. "If I get you to see them. It will set a precedent. We will have to mediate for the children for years on."

Filius then interrupted: "That does not seem like such a bad idea to begin with. I say the professors have been too lazy to hand everything over to the Ministry to handle. These are our students. Their results reflect on us as their educators."

Slughorn whispered after the cricket silence that had ensued after Filius' bout of wisdom: "Nobby Leach will be the death of us."

Dippet snapped his fingers then: "Why didn't you just say so, Horace. I shall find a way to expel him and ease your minds, dear friends."

Filius blanched. Merrythought shouted that that would not solve the problem but would only cause further student unrest and that this was not the 18th century to be so callous and careless about the lives of students. 

Dippet raised his arms in surrender then, offering no better idea. Merrythought took away her wand and cursed under her breath at the situation at hand. Things had gotten too bad to be fixed instantly. All of them had looked the other way for too long. 

"Unbelievable!" 

"I truly do not understand why we cannot just get rid of the unruly students?"

"Because they are right." 

Dippet could not imagine students knowing better than adults. It was obscene to even think about. He said as much next.

Horace whispered a prayer to his gods under his breath then. 

"Have you tried taking points?"

"Yes."

"Detention?"

"They just do not come to them."

"Aha! Corporal punishment."

Dumbledore almost spoke up about how that might be a good idea, thinking to get Tom Riddle for an interrogation of sorts. At this point Dumbledore was already incredibly suspicious of Tom Riddle and his involvement with Myrtle Warren’s case. 

Merrythought and the rest of the professors kept nagging at Dippet until he ultimately fretted that Merrythought would walk away from her position, taking all of her colleagues with her due to authority. 

‘’Fine!’’ He said at last. ‘’I shall contact the Ministry and get this whole mess sorted.’’

* * *

A few days later. 

‘’On behalf of the Ministry for Magic, I would personally like to extend my apology to any student that may have been targeted unfairly by our silly little mishap. You see, children, we were all so focused on the War and helping the War effort that we did not see such a small mistake had gone out.’’ Violetta Black batted her eyelids and smiled pettily. She regarded them with distaste carefully hidden underneath false positivity and cheer.

Nobby Leach stepped up from all of the students. He gave Violetta Black a small nod, in favour of a bow that the purebloods preferred. ‘’On behalf of the Student body, I accept your apology.’’ He outstretched his hand then and waited to see if Violetta Black would take it. She, feeling pressured from so many eyes around her and the fact that her meddling had come to light, swallowed down her pride to take Leach’s hand in hers. But it was obvious she hated every waking minute of it.

Soon after she left, Leach pulled Tom aside and told him, so the rest of the attending and celebrating students didn’t hear. ‘’Did you notice that she mentioned the war effort and how we had distracted the Ministry’s too important work by making such a fuss about our education?’’

‘’Yes. We expected this.’’ Tom crossed his arms. He leaned on the windowsill. Leach preferred the wall. They both glanced over to see if someone might come and interrupt them. Nobody paid them any mind, too busy drafting letters to let their parents know that, no, they had definitely passed OWLs and that it was just racism that had done them in – as usual.

Leach scoffed, nearly laughing. ‘’If they cared so much for doing their jobs properly they wouldn’t have taken from their concentration and their work on the war effort by going directly out of their way to inconvenience the future of Wizarding Britain.’’ His laugh petered out and his eyes hardened into steel. ‘’Unless that wasn’t a distraction, nor a mishap.’’

‘’Unless it was planned.’’

‘’I checked the records, mate.’’ Leach said. Flitwick had gotten them for him. ‘’On average most OWL and NEWT repeaters are muggleborns and halfbloods. Dating back a good ten years back.’’

‘’What happened ten years ago?’’

‘’Nah, no, nothing special. Probaly the same thing. It is just that I couldn’t get the records from such a long time ago.’’

‘’Ah, right. Okay. Fair.’’

They lapsed into silence. But this one was broken by Tom Riddle: ‘’Wait, they won’t do this for our NEWTs, as well? Will they?’’

Nobby Leach remembered the fear dancing in Violetta’s eyes. Not particularly at Leach (he was only one), but at the fact that she had gotten caught red-handed and that she had had to rescind her criminal activity (not regarded as such, of course, because she was a Black and this was nothing but a little mishap).

‘’If it happens again, we will know how to act.’’ Nobby Leach said. He pumped his fist in the air and said: ‘’I am going to fight them if it is the last thing I do! For too long have they had the podium all to themselves, mate. It’s **_my_** time.’’

Tom Riddle looked queasy at the mere idea of going through this affair all over again in two years. ‘’Leach, pace yourself. You barely passed OWLs.’’

‘’I don’t need high OWL scores. Not if I have you, Mr. highest score in _Hogwarts’ history._ ’’

* * *

‘’Until me.’’ Hermione couldn’t help but say.

‘’Until you.’’ Her mentor said. ‘’How does it feel like to be an even bigger nerd than I am?’’

‘’A bit cheated, really. I never had a prejudiced government to fight.’’

‘’While it would have no doubt made for an entertaining life, be happy that you lived in a peaceful era.’’

‘’True.’’

* * *

Learning how to apparate was a dangerous, yet thrilling task. Hermione looked at the gaggle of seventh years (much more abundant than her class was, which was very much expected given the civil war that had decimated the population) gathered together in the Great Hall. There were a couple of instructors, though only one spoke. She happened to be the most influential instructor of the bunch.

‘’Hello, hello, dear future of Wizarding Britain!’’ She cheered, her expression morphed into that of forced cheer. Her hands were clasped together. ‘’My name is Regina Rowle and my team and I will be helping you learn apparition! And what a wonderful skill that is, dear, dear children.’’ Then she giggled into her hand. ‘’Oh! I almost forgot now – you aren’t children. You are, after you finish your NEWTS, a beautiful and wonderful and ingenious work force that will change the world for the better. Won’t you? Won’t you?’’

* * *

‘’Ew.’’  
  
‘’Yes, I do wonder if she has any relations to Dolores Umbridge?’’

‘’This is sickening.’’

‘’Hone that intuition, Hermione, it will serve you well.’’

* * *

Nobby Leach stood around his Ravenclaws and winked over at Tom Riddle, who narrowed his eyes and made questioning hand gesticulations. He was worn out as Head Boy, it could be seen in the tightness and fatigue nestled around his eyes. Especially with the approaching NEWTs and the cramming study sessions he was making everyone in Slytherin attend. That was how it had started… when he’d shown he was capable of helping Abraxas Malfoy understand the material, everyone slowly inched towards him and his erudite nature.

Walburga Black said nothing on this. It hurt her quite a lot. But she was going to come to him soon for a deal. He couldn’t just take her little followers without consequences. For now, however, she gave a predatory grin aimed at Head Girl Mandy Sullivan. That position should have been hers. It was her by birthright, so to speak. The previous Head Girls were all of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black when there was an elligible member of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black present.

Not a mudblood. Her smile turned acidic. Mandy Sullivan didn’t look at it. She was focused on what Regina Rowle was teaching them about apparating. How it was dangerous to fluidly apparate without practise and that one ought to take deliberate care and time when apparating for the first couple of times.

‘’You do not want to get splinched now!’’ Regina smiled as she told the seventh years all about how in one of her classes a mudgleborn student-

* * *

‘’ _Mud_ gleborn?’’ Hermione hissed.  
‘’Yes.’’

‘’Wow.’’ She shook her head in disbelief. ‘’Just, _wow_.’’

* * *

-Had splinched her back into pieces that scattered about the country. ‘’I do believe she is still in a wheelchair!’’ Then at their queasy looks she clapped and told them to line up. ‘’Purebloods on the left, the rest on the right.’’

Tom Riddle went to Leach immediately. Most of the time he still sat with him in class. Abraxas was slowly phasing him out, but Nobby Leach wouldn’t be kicked out of Tom Riddle’s sphere that easily. This was especially true given how Nobby and Tom were friends before Abraxas had even deigned to speak politely to Tom.

‘’Should I invest in a bloody yellow armband?’’ Nobby Leach whispered under his breath.

Tom Riddle flinched. ‘’Do not speak like that.’’ He whispered back, voice much more tense than Leach’s was. Leach’s was angry.

‘’Yellow?’’ Mandy Sullivan snorted. ‘’I think that colour’s taken. Ours would probably be brown for mud.’’ She’s snuck up on them and chosen their side, breaking off from the Hufflepuffs. Her eyes glowed with zest. ‘’We are going to learn how to teleport, gents. Suck it up.’’

Leach’s voice turned animated then. His whole face was alight with joy. ‘’Aye aye, Head Girl. We best be on our best behaviour or else she will take points away!’’

Before the banter could continue, Regina Rowle’s voice went up in pitch to get them back on track. ‘’Now, now, students, there are some of you who are rolling your eyes at my introductory explanation. This is because some of your fellow students have never had your upbringing and the privileges that come with them. Their muggle parents can’t teach them anything so they must rely on us to show them the way. Most purebloods learn how to apparate before their seventh year. Is there anyone here that would like to demonstrate to your peers how real wizards and witches apparate?’’

Walburga Black, of course, raised her hand. She apparated from her line to the professor in a twist, followed by a crack.

‘’Bravo!’’ Regina clapped.

Walburga smiled hungrily at the praise and the applause.

* * *

‘’Why are you tense?’’ Hermione had noticed her mentor looking grimly at this scene. He watched Tom Riddle stumble through his apparating exercises, how Mandy Sullivan apparated without half an eyebrow, how Nobby Leach struggled, how Abraxas Malfoy began to slowly get everyone proficient to play apparating tag.

‘’This is one of those moments in my life that I do not particularly like. Forgive me for dreading someone else seeing my cowardice in action.’’

* * *

The instructors got wrangled by Dippet to show them around Hogwarts and have them take note of things that needed funding. Their leaving would prove to be the most life-changing thing to happen to one Tom Riddle.

Walburga apparated behind Leach and tagged him. ‘’You’re it.’’ She said, with a wicked, cruel smile. Leach was much too surprised by Walburga Black’s willingness to touch a mudblood by hand to see her ulterior motives. He smiled and asked her if she was inviting him to play with them.

‘’It’ll help you learn better.’’ Walburga said, just as quickly disapparating back to the Slytherins. Abraxas was next to Tom, giving him advice because he’d learnt it beforehand so he could please his mother and not embarrass the Malfoy name in public by making gaffes.

Nobby Leach, too caught up in being included by the most influential and distanced students of Hogwarts, didn’t see ahead of this opportunity. He slowly apparated, how the instructor had taught him. By the time he apparated, Walburga had already done so twice. She kept mocking his speed. ‘’Come along, Leach, come along. Show us what a mudblood can do!’’

After the fifth apparition, Nobby Leach couldn’t take Walburga’s teasing. Abraxas Malfoy guffawed, as well. ‘’He cannot even play tag properly!’’ There was something unbelievably annoying in listening to this peacock-like laugh. Nobby Leach curled his fingers into fists, took a deep breath, and apparated to the spot he figured Walburga was going to apparate to. He would get her.

Without going through the three Ds of apparating, he spun in place and –

* * *

Hermione tensed up. ‘’Oh God.’’ She covered her mouth with her hands.

* * *

Nobby Leach screamed. It was a deafening sound that pierced not only the ears of all present, but their hearts. Tom Riddle turned around hastily, his eyes shot wide in recognition. Walburga Black’s raucous laughter followed. She found the sight in front of her the most deliciously hilarious little thing in the whole wide world.

Mandy Sullivan was the first to react, racing towards Leach. There was a puddle of blood pooling underneath him. When Mandy flipped him on his back she placed a hand over her mouth to stop herself from vomiting. She moved her wand through the air to do the only spell she could: a magic stabilising spell. It was the first step in treating any mage and Mandy had a bit of an ambition to be a Healer. 

‘’Black, what did you do?’’ Her voice turned to steel. Mandy Sullivan was shaking as she turned to see Walburga Black’s smug, smug face widen to accommodate her glee.

‘’I invited him to play. If he was not up to the task, Sullivan, then he should not have accepted to play with the big boys.’’ She brushed off Sullivan’s rage easily, as if brushing off specks of dirt from her robe. To her this was exactly like that.

‘’Fifty points from Slytherin.’’ Mandy Sullivan, Head Girl, was capable of taking off points from students for misconduct. ‘’For endangering a student’s life.’’

Outrage sizzled from the Slytherins at this. Fifty points was calculated. It set them behind Hufflepuff and Gryffindor in their lead for the House Cup now. Orion shouted at Mandy, calling her a mudblood that didn’t know her place. Walburga smiled pettily. She took out her wand and said: ‘’Give back the points, Sullivan.’’

One would be very wrong to assume that Walburga was a good sport when she lost. And she had lost the position of Head Girl to Mandy Sullivan. This was an outrage for the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. So, one would be very wise to assume (make an educated guess, more like) that Walburga was waiting to have a reason to go after Mandy Sullivan. And this… this was the perfect, opportune moment.

‘’I will not.’’ Mandy stood by her words. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Tom Riddle moving Leach and trying to get him to the Infirmary. He had with him Avery (the one most intimidated or most indebted to Tom Riddle of the Slytherins), who was gagging every step of the way and making sure that Nobby Leach didn’t quite see the mess which was his abdomen.

‘’Ew, ew, ew, ew, ew, ew.’’

‘’Hellooo, Averyyyy,’’ Leach was having a marvellous time. Someone had hit him with a pain numbing spell. Mandy vaguely remembered it coming from the Ravenclaw side. Most of them had gone to fetch the instructors or the professors, who had very stupidly left the student body unattended.

‘’Ew, ew,’’

‘’Avery, I swear to Slytherin, I will dismember you if you don’t stop.’’

Avery lifted up his hand and it was coated in blood. ‘’Ew. Ew. Ewww.’’

Leach began to sing along to Avery’s relentless Ews. Tom Riddle was going to bleach his mind from this memory once he got Leach to the infirmary. Especially when Walburga Black called him back: ‘’Riddle, give us back our well-deserved points. If anyone should lose points it should be Ravenclaw for having such a crass idiot in their midst like Leach.’’

Here, Leach sing-sang a bit of a ballad in honour of Walburga Black.

‘’Don’t you dare, Tom Riddle!’’ Mandy called forth for solidarity.

Tom Riddle glanced back down to Leach’s guts. One of Leach’s arms was over Tom’s shoulder while the other was over Avery’s. His blood was pumping blood so loudly he couldn’t hear anything else. He could feel his feet drag, only to quicken when Leach coughed blood out of his mouth.

‘’Riddle!’’ Walburga yelled. Her voice was like a banshee’s, but it was full of authority, as well. She regarded Mandy Sullivan foully and played up Tom Riddle’s need to belong in Slytherin, his yearning to become rich and influential and powerful. Only with the support of his own House could he accomplish this. And in order to gain the full support of his Housemates, Walburga Black (the current de facto leader) would need to welcome Tom Riddle into the fray, so to speak. Which she hadn’t done yet because Tom Riddle was a mudblood outsider whose only redeeming quality was tutoring Abraxas Malfoy.

Tom Riddle turned to Walburga Black. His breathing was shallow, from the on setting panic. He had killed his father and grandparents, had killed Myrtle Warren, and he needed to guard himself from those too weak to attain power. Tom Riddle needed it in order to be great. Slytherin was the House of the great and the influential and he wanted to be on the inside, not on the outside looking in as he was currently. Abraxas tried to push his friends to give him the time of day. Leach had told him he could play them, but Walburga proved herself to be a formidable obstacle.

She was looking intently at him. She was looking at him exactly how he had always wanted her to. Not with disgust. Oh, of course, there was a little bit of that there, too. But she looked at him with need. She needed him and she needed his help and she depended on him. ‘’It would be a shame for House Slytherin to lose its six-year streak of victory. We’re your housemates. Your loyalty is to us.’’

Mandy and Leach had been there for him since the beginning. They had gone through the OWL ordeal whereas everyone in Slytherin had mocked him for it, or looked uncomfortable (but only vaguely). But Walburga Black opened doors that Leach could never open for him.

And Tom Riddle wouldn’t remain a penniless orphan. He was immortal. He was a god in the making. And he wanted to see every single one of them bow to him. His eyes sparked.

Avery’s litany of ‘ew’s gave Tom Riddle the perfect idea: ‘’Fifty- **five** points awarded to Avery for helping a classmate get to the infirmary and acting with a clear head.’’

‘’Thank youu, Averyyy.’’ Leach snort-laughed.

Avery gaped. Walburga Black laughed triumphantly. Tom Riddle’s hands shook as he held onto Leach and finally exited the Great Hall. Mandy Sullivan’s disappointed face wasn’t something he saw. But he did manage to hear the first spell be shot off.

* * *

Hermione exhaled shakily. She couldn’t look at her mentor.

This was fine. He couldn’t look at himself either.

* * *

Their Hogwarts Healer sewed Leach together with a spell. She said that he’d need to go to St. Mungo’s if he wasn’t feeling better, but that this was a close call. Next she told both Riddle and Avery what sweet and thoughtful students they were to save someone outside of their House like this. ‘’Great job, Miss Avery. Mr. Riddle, I never expected anything less from you.’’

Avery looked sick to his stomach, which was only spurned on harder with the added Miss to his woes. He looked to Riddle, who was sitting down on a bench outside of the infirmary (so as not to disturb the patients) and noted that Riddle was staring through the wall opposite to them.

‘’My lord?’’ Avery was the first Knight of Walpurgis. He whispered the title so nobody would catch on and watched as colour returned gradually to Riddle’s face.

‘’Avery?’’ His voice was quiet. He scooted to the bench to give Avery a place to sit down on, noting how much he shook in his shoes. They looked like Mary Jane’s. ‘’Nice shoes.’’ He commented, finding nothing else to say.

Avery grimaced down at them. ‘’You can have them for all I care.’’

Before Tom could say that he didn’t want women’s shoes and that he didn’t want to give Avery his shoes to trade, Walburga Black’s voice cascaded through the corridor. ‘’I WAS DEFENDING MYSELF, PROFESSOR! I AM MOST CERTAINLY NOT TO BLAME! I HAVE EYE-WITNESSES THAT SAY THAT MANDY SULLIVAN HERE FIRED FIRST!’’ There was fake crying involved in the later part of this performance. Riddle and Avery watched, muted by the spectacle in front of them.

Mandy Sullivan fell into view then. One could barely recognize her from all of the dried blood over her face. She was twitching in pain. Galatea Merrythought watched Walburga. Tom Riddle wondered if she had ever looked at another student with such a deep urge to slap her. She didn’t, of course, because she was going to get an earful from her parents and the administration and the bloody Ministry together.

‘’Don’t I deserve some points for bringing the girl here, professor?’’ Walburga batted her eyelids.

Merrythought said that Walburga better be happy she wasn’t taking points away from Slytherin. This shut the girl up. She thanked her professor for her time and scurried off to where Tom Riddle was. ‘’Tom!’’ She never called him by his first name. Her face was morphed in sheer glee now that Merrythought couldn’t see it. ‘’Tom, oh, Tom! You and I will have a **_wonderful_** time from now on.’’

Avery stepped aside when Walburga looked at him derisively for daring to be in her way. ‘’Apologies, Walburga.’’

She didn’t deign this with a response. However, what she did deign with a response was Tom Riddle’s show of loyalty back in the Great Hall. She offered up her arm to him to take. He thought that it was supposed to go the other way around, but this was more about power dynamics than it was about something as silly as societal decorum.

‘’Take it.’’ Walburga said. ‘’Don’t keep a lady waiting.’’

Tom Riddle took her arm. Walburga led him away from this life of otherness. She had her arm under his and whereas it would be expected for Riddle to lead, he found himself following along to her pace. Next she said the words that Tom Riddle would remember for the rest of his life: ‘’Don’t think that you’ve done something wrong by siding with us. There is no good or evil, Riddle. Only power and those too weak to seek it.’’ She winked. ‘’You have finally proven that you are Slytherin material. Abraxas was right to push my buttons and to vouch for you. Today you have shown that you can be trusted.’’

Tom Riddle craned his neck back to see Mandy Leach’s bleeding, disfigured face glare daggers at him. He had burned that bridge. It was time to make new connections. After this, he swore, he could never be forgiven.

* * *

Hermione and her mentor waited for the next memory, not being able to quite look at one another. 

* * *

Tom Riddle worked in a shop in Knockturn Alley. Sometimes he would go on his break to Diagon Alley to treat himself a stew. Because he was severely lacking cooked meals and knew that one of these days he was going to go insane if he had go breakfast another cold pastry. Even the orphanage treated them better than he treated himself.

Tom the barmen greeted Tom the Shopkeep while Tom the mentor watched all of this go down. Hermione had to concede that there were a lot more Toms than she anticipated. She asked her mentor if it was okay if she still called him Montgomery. He said that, given the circumstances, it would be the sane thing to do.

A little bell rang up at the door when a newcomer arrived into the Leaky Cauldron. This man was wearing the most exhausted smile on his face. "MATE!"

Tom Riddle turned around to see the owner of the voice and wasn't disappointed. "Leach, hello."

‘’How is your employer getting on with you?’’

‘’I do not get paid overtime and I only do overtime. This is my first break in two days.’’ Tom Riddle couldn’t wait until he had enough money to go to Albania and search for that damned diadem. He was being offered money from his followers, but he would rather save it for something much more expensive and worthy of his cause. What kind of leader and lord asked his lowly subjects for money for a trip? None any Tom Riddle knew and looked up to! However, as an added, confusing bonus he had his sights on Hepzibah Smith. She said she had the Hufflepuff Cup in her possession and before going for the Ravenclaw Diadem, it would be more prudent to take care of … domestic, domicile things first.

Nobby nodded. He was equally as tired. ‘’I get them coffee.’’

‘’Coffee?’’

‘’And croissants or whatever pastry they deem to want to eat. Sometimes they want scones. It differs. But – it’s an improvement! They trust me not to contaminate their food now.’’ He looked so… happy. Tom Riddle couldn’t help but force a smile at such miniscule progress. More for Leach’s sake rather than for agreements’.

‘’And you think that soon they’re going to let you see what they’re actually doing?’’

‘’Well, they’re grilling the new halfblood, too. Not as intensely as me, of course, but still. Don’t even let me started on the vampire that tried to get an internship. They just told him to leave and never come back else they were going to hit him with a few lumos spells.’’

‘’How illuminating.’’ Tom Riddle tried for more candour in his voice. He couldn’t muster even that. Retail had broken him.

Nobby Leach went on to speak about how he was happy that Flitwick had pulled strings to get him this position. ‘’I will repay him one day. It is my duty.’’

‘’Hm.’’ Tom Riddle didn’t like to remember that he couldn’t find a single job with his OWLs and his NEWTs without Slughorn’s intervention. And even then he’d gotten a job at Borgin and Burke’s…who were… and Tom had not known… extremely open minded about all sorts of things. Whenever Abraxas visited him (and this had happened few times) Borgin and Burke would get all heated up about Tom keeping very good company, indeed. Each time this happened, a little part of Tom Riddle died inside due to mortification.

Their conversation soon turned much too political for Tom Riddle’s own good. As if God (not that Tom Riddle believed in one, much to Nobby Leach’s disappointment) had a hand in his life’s flow – the door rattled open and both Tom and Nobby turned to see the source of it.

It was Mandy Sullivan. She looked haggard. They had to call her name three times before she even heard them. When she saw them both together, it was as if their previous animosity melted away in lieu of their new, ungrateful positions in life. She fell into a chair next to Leach’s and looked at Tom Riddle’s order. It took her very little not to salivate over the damned thing. When the waiter came by she ordered for herself and said that she accepted any extra chips that might find their way on her plate.

It didn’t take them long to start talking. Mandy told them that she was disappointed wholly in the world around them. Her eye bags were the most prominent. Mostly due to the fact that she actually dealt with the lives of people and not antiques or politicians' coffee orders. Neither Tom nor Nobby would ever be capable of understanding what such a thing meant.

"A patient died during my shift. I rushed out first among the trainees to see if I could help - but… but he didn't want to be helped by someone like me. So…" Mandy rubbed the exhaustion out of her eyes and tried not to break down crying at the table. It took her everything she had to say the next part: "He died from a preventable cause, but if I had insisted he would have been able to make a shitshow for St. Mungo's and I would lose my training. But _now_ **_I_** am under **_scrutiny_** for my actions. I cannot win." Here her voice wobbled. "We cannot win."

Nobby placed his hand over hers. She let him. Tom ate his stew. The two made eye contact and connected on a deep emotional level. Tom slurped his stew and tried to scoop up the last remaining bits of it to quench his hunger. Mandy looked at Tom then and sighed, pulling her hand away from Nobby's: "How is Mafloy?"

"Good, yes."

"Do you see him often?"

"Yes."

* * *

Montgomery snorted. Hermione looked at him expectantly. "He was barred from seeing me. Mercier had just arrived to England and Abraxas had to be present to interact with his future wife. Yvette would not have it ant other way." Hermione sadly nodded.

* * *

"That's good!" Nobby said. "I'm happy for you."

Tom Riddle grew uncomfortable. Even more so when Nobby ordered two portions of fish and chips "accidentally" and insisted that throwing out food was bad and evil and very arrogant and that Tom and Mandy were definitely neither of those things and that they ought to help him out with this extra portion.

Mandy took a couple of chips. "Can't argue with that logic."

* * *

Hermione glanced over at her mentor again. She wanted to say something, to ask something, but she couldn’t. She didn’t know how to.

* * *

Whilst in Albania, Tom Riddle got letters from his followers, Abraxas (through Thoros), and a few letters from Nobby Leach. He would open those with care. At first with care because he thought that they were sent by mistake. Especially because of how much Leach meandered about, trying to speak about anything except the thing he wanted to say most. One could feel this sort of thing through letters.

_Dear Voldemort,_

Tom narrowed his eyes. It was interesting to note that someone like Nobby Leach had found out about his title. Tom knew he hadn’t told him. And he was still Tom while in Albania because his mentor Zef told him he wasn’t yet powerful enough for this mockup of a title. Very irritating. But, he did want Lord Voldemort to be the most powerful wizard when he appeared for the first time to the public, so he would wait and learn and read letters.

_I hope this letter finds you in good health. Mandy sends her love. She also sends food, but there is a good chance that the owl might eat it on the way._

Tom tried to look if any food had arrived. It had not. Fine, the owl had had its fill.

I know you are incredibly busy and fastidious only in the way someone like you can be, so I hope that you do not find this letter distracting in any way.

Tom snorted at the choice of words. Distracting. For whatever reason he could feel a slight smile wrap his lips.

_My intentions are selfish, I must admit. I wish to know how you are getting on and if you are taking care of yourself. When or if you do decide to come back to our small island, do know that I would be happy to meet with you and see how you have travelled the world and learned all sorts of interesting magic. It cannot be as bad in the world as it is here. This obsession with blood is unhealthy and we must find a way to snip it at its roots. There are so many wonderful ways of melding magic and bettering the world we live in._

_These are difficult times we live in. Joyous and peaceful times, but dangerous nonetheless with Grindelwald’s rhetoric still muddling about people’s views of the world and its citizens. I shall not bore you or trouble you with the details, but I am filled with ire whenever I see them. There has to be a way to show them what we are capable of without having to beg our Heads of Houses for help and connections. Just as I am angry, so I am full of sadness. What they did to us for our OWLs is only step one. It is good that you have left. You are a sensitive sort and you would not be able to handle the pressure I am under to represent a whole social cast._

_Before you decide to completely burn this letter in a rage, or for kindle, or out of annoyance - allow me to say one more thing, please. If at any time you feel stranded by the purebloods, know that you have the most tenacious mudblood on your side!_

_Give them hell, London!_

_MUDPRIDE_

_PS. Do you think asking Mandy Sullivan out is a good idea? She is not your fancy girl, is she? Forgive me if she is, but neither you nor she speak often about feelings and love. You Catholics really are emotionally stunted._

_PPS. Forgot to sign my name:_

_Yours sincerely,_

_Nobby Leach._

Tom Riddle’s expression is that of sheer, dumbfounded confusion. He hisses out in parseltongue: _‘’What a silly, silly man.’’_

* * *

‘’I remember being disgusted at Leach then, for reminding me of my roots. But knowing one’s roots is exactly what keeps one grounded. You are supposed to feed from your roots, not cut them off and die like a flower in a vase.’’ Montgomery taught.

Hermione nodded. She snapped her fingers and exclaimed: ‘’He was your first friend.’’ She thought of Ron and Harry.

‘’I suppose there is no other way of explaining it.’’

‘’Why would you kill him then?’’ Hermione pondered. ‘’Was it money?’’

Montgomery held his hands tightly into fists. They tightened further, whitening his knuckles harder at the jab. ‘’I would never do such a thing. It is only slander and easy scape-goating that has allowed history books to print such lies out. Mandy Leach knows very well who killed her husband and it isn’t me!’’

Hermione didn’t say anything, especially not at the raised voice. Silence lapsed between them as the memory shifted into something new.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I THOUGHT it was gonna end - but it just KEPT growing and IT'S GONNA BE OVER 35K IN TOTAL SO I SPLIT THE DAMNED THING BUT IT'S STILL SO BIG AND I HATE MY LIFE RIGHT NOW Y'ALL - I REALLY DO - THIS SHIT IS HARD AND NOBBY LEACH AND HIS IDEAS CAN GO FUCK THEMSELVES 
> 
> also if you've made it this far, see this anguish, and don't comment words of encouragement, i will curse you with my montenegrin curses i'm not even kidding i'm at this stage in my life where everything hurts and retired prometheus KEEPS GROWING


	56. Nobby Leach and his ideas II

Nobby Leach arrived in the Ministry wearing a muggle suit. He had a polka dotted tie. Next to him was Mandy Sullivan. She was wearing a muggle dress. Anxiously she held onto her clutch bag and trailed next to him. They looked out of place in the Ministry, where everyone wore robes and smelled of perfume that Nobby Leach swore smelled just a tad like a love potion. He couldn’t be certain, but he had heard from Septimus Weasley that pureblood women put a drop of a love potion into their perfume to smell just a tad more alluring than they were. And the men, too, really. That Abraxas Malfoy had the right idea, otherwise he’d smell like a drug addict sweating and ruining and yearning for cocaine.

But no. This wasn’t about him. This was about Nobby Leach. He asked one of the aurors standing watch where he could find the Wizengamot and the Ministry candidates. They, thinking he was just there to watch, happily pointed him in the direction. Though, one of them made a remark about their clothing. Sepcifically Mandy’s, which in their opinion garnered a whistle and a leer. She quickened her step and pulled Nobby Leach to walk faster, to not jeopardize everything they had worked for in order to tell off two idiots.

He listened to her, softening his angry expression when he saw hers. She guided him to the door and then both of them had to close their eyes when they walked through, for a blazing fire met them there. It danced in the clearing surrounded by the wizengamot seats. Around said seats were people that had come to watch the initiation of the mages who were going to run for Minister for Magic. But in the centre, in the centre of the spectacle was a raging, twisting, magnificent blue fire. Blue, one might even say if they were really willing to look for symbolism, like blue blood.

Nobby Leach straightened himself up. He looked to Mandy Sullivan and thought about changing her name to his. She beamed with joy and rubbed her hands together with jitters. He winked at her and she returned it, the bold thing that she was.

Among them were scattered pieces of the world, pure, half, muddy, and the forgotten. Most of them were Black, Nobby Leach could instantly tell by their dark hair and impervious eyes. Walburga Black was among those standing in the very first lines. Their faces were illuminated by the dancing fire, beckoning them closer. Nobby Leach had asked why it was fire that ignited in the centre of the wizengamot chambers and Filius Flitwick had told him, as gently as he could: ’’They say it’s to filter those who are too dirty blooded to enter.’’

Nobby Leach had nodded in thanks. His eyes glowed with even fiercer determination. He balled his hand into a fist and he held it close to his chest as he moved through the crowd. Next to Walburga Black was an imposing man, also a Black, because they travelled in packs like wolves and dogs.

Arcturus Black, otherwise known as Lord Black, gave a look of contempt for any and all that were beneath him. He held his head up high and regarded the flames like his next conquest. He was Walburga’s uncle and father-in-law. Nobby Leach wished he could cough Borgia in front of them, but it would be a futile reference for someone as uneducated in muggle history as them.

Ignatius Tuft stood on the opposite side of the Blacks. He was current Minister, but they were trying to get rid of him because he wanted to breed Dementors and let them run rampant. He was just a tad mentally unstable for the position of power being Minsiter lend him. He was wearing a robe bedazzled by jewels. Like a crazy emperor from Rome or some other misfit creature that needed to be stabbed thirteen times and told to take a break and stop wanting to kill people through un-thought out political decisions.

The Head of the Wizengamot welcomed everyone and said that those who wanted to run for Minister were free to step up into the flame and have their magic recognized. It was the right of any mage that was not a Dark creature. And due to technicality this included parselmouths. Nobby Leach tried to find Tom Riddle through the crowd. It was too risky to wave to him, but he could see him standing next to a rattled and bouncy Abraxas Malfoy. That man looked just a bit too high to be all right.

By law and out of respect for the hierarchy of Ministry regulations the first to step into the flame was supposed to be Ignatius Tuft, but when he spotted Lord Black take the first step, he pulled back two steps. Whatever whine he had on the tip of his tongue turned to steam and evaporated. Lord Black’s gaze was unmoving as he stepped into the flame. He embraced the fire dancing across his form and moved to be in the centre, the very beginning of its reach.

’’Lord Arcturus Black III of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.’’

Then, Ignatius Tuft stepped into the fire and moved to the centre. He was ready to fight for the Minister position until his dying breath. Lord Black welcomed the challenge.

’’Current Minister Ignatius Tuft of the Loyal House Tuft.’’

Ignatius proudly preened. He bounced on the back of his heels as he waited for the flame to peter out. Lord Black’s expression was predatory. Because anyhting a Black wanted, a Black would get no matter the cost. He planned, already, to walk over Ignatius and bury him like the worm he no doubt was. His grin was toothy. He, too, couldn’t wait until the flame extinguished so he could prepare for the infamous silver-tongued duel against the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. For any wizard or witch, there was no greater honour! Ignatius Tuft moved where Lord Black remained stoic and assured. Ignatius Tuft looked towards the rippling flame first, where Lord Black remained stone-faced of the **_intruder_**.

The Wizengamot official did not speak the name. He had to _ask_ for it because he did not know it.

And then the voice pierced the air and the flame and welcomed the fire just as easily, just as readily as Lord Black and Minister Tuft. ’’My name is Nobby Leach.’’

The ripple effect this had. It could not be explained in mere words. There was a chain of gasps. A chain of words, of profanities, of horror, of elation, of happiness, of wondrous _hope_. Nobby Leach was a name nobody knew, yet everyone felt like they knew. Nobby Leach was a name that dared to want to be known.

Blue fire slowly began to flicker around them. Nobby Leach hurried to the centre for the fire to recognize him.

The Wizengamot official said, finally, manifesting forth into the world something dangerous and changing: ’’Mr. Nobby Leach.’’

Mind Magic was Black Magic. This all knew. And whatever Lord Black told Ignatius Tuft must have been pretty severe, because, pale and frightened and shaking, Ignatius Tuft nearly ran out of the circle and took back his candidacy run. He kept his gaze on Arcturus Black as if he had seen the devil. He fell, then, when Arcturus turned his gaze away to fix it on Nobby Leach. Without using any words or hand movements, he cast legilimens on him and said: _’’Boy, do not fight fire when you are green like a mandrake leaf.’’_

Nobby Leach, in his suit and polka dotted tie, regarded the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black and said, not in his mind, but out so the world could hear because he had no secrets he was not ready to die for: ’’I will enjoy being your opponent, Lord Black. I will savour my victory more, however.’’

The fire disperesed. Lord Black and Nobby Leach remained the candidates for Minister. Ignatius Tuft shook like a leaf when Lord Black swept past him. He paid him no mind, only looking ahead and planning how to defeat the pest known as Nobby Leach.

Tom Riddle could be seen walking out of the room with Abraxas Malfoy in tow. The latter held onto the former, feeling just a smidge off balance when the high fell.

Nobby Leach walked past Walburga Black’s stricken face. He placed a hand on her shoulder in passing and said: ’’ ** _Tag._** You’re it, Lady Black.’’

He didn’t see her expression. He didn’t need to. Mandy told him it was priceless as she pulled him into a hug.

* * *

Hermione had never had the pleasure of hearing Nobby Leach speak. No, she had heard him in memories talking to people, but she had never heard the campaigning, she had never heard the infamous Mudpride speech of **_1962_**.

And it was time. It was time for her to hear it. If nobody had filmed it or kept it on record, it was time for her to hear it here and now in Tom Marvolo Riddle’s mind. She breathed in shakily because she could feel herself brimming in the crowd with joy and anxiousness and liberation. It swept over the vampires, the werewolves, the squibs, the muggleborns, the halfbloods, and the purebloods like a tsunami.

A man wearing an expensive robe introduced Nobby Leach to the podium where all the Minister candidates were to hold their speech. She turned to look at her mentor and asked him if this was The Speech. And he nodded, signifying that it was. This was the speech that got the people on board with Nobby Leach. This was the speech that broke them from the Black hold and got them to stop voting for the same old people for over thirty, forty, seventy, hundred, two hundred, three hundred years. However long the Statute of Secrecy was at the time. Hermione’s attention was glued to Nobby Leach and his apparel. He wore a robe that denoted classiness, but not class. His watch (and what mage did not have a watch?) was worn out and scrounged up by his close friends when they were all seventeen and wild.

Now, now he was not as wild. But he was not tame by any means. Nobby Leach waved at the crowd and beamed at them all, knowing that among them were people who were already in his corner, people who would never be, and there – also – were people who wanted to be inspired, who wished to be seduced to the side of the mudblood.

’’Hello, Magical Britain!’’ He opened up his arms, showing a different pose to the one Lord Black exhibited, with his crossed arms and snotty demeanour, ’’Unlike my opponent, I need an introduction. The lot of you that do know me, know me as Nobby Leach. Those that don’t know me personally know me through a smear campaign done by my opponent that proves I am illiterate, therefore ineligible for the Minister for Magic position.’’

* * *

Hermione turned to her mentor for aid. ’’Smear campaign?’’

’’Someone asked him to read what a bunch of runes said and when he floundered used that to drag his mudblood name through the mud. As it were...’’

’’Just that?’’

’’That wasn’t even a third of it, Hermione. They wanted to _bury_ him alive and watch him die. I intercepted most of it, what with being on the inside of all of those plans. Lestrange always did wonder how the aurors just so happened to know when they were planning an assassination here and there.’’

’’An assassination?’’ Hermione squeaked in disbelief. ’’He hadn’t even won?’’

’’They knew he would.’’

’’They knew?’’

’’If they didn’t know, they knew after this speech. The only ones that clung onto hope were the Blacks.’’

* * *

Nobby Leach scanned the crowd again and used the silence to say: ’’Aren’t you tired?’’

Nobody said anything. It was no matter. Nobby continued, his voice louder. ’’Aren’t you tired of the way you can count on one hand how many creatures there are in the Ministry? And even that is grunt work that everyone makes you feel bad to work. No work should be looked down upon. We, as a society, have to be better for the sake of our children.’’

Someone shouted through the crowd, planted there no doubt by the purebloods, how Nobby Leach was a liar to speak about children and family when he himself had neither children nor a wife.

Hermione spotted a galmoured man – who looked the spitting image of Montgomery Goldsmith (the American, the glamour, the disguise) rush through the crowd and silence the planted fiend. She turned to her mentor, who stood beside her, and opened her mouth in a weird, little, ’oh’.

Nobby Leach spoke over the instigator. He would not let this deter him. Not when he and Mandy and Voldemort and everyone else that had worked so hard, given their lives for this moment – no, he would not stop when he was so close. When he could taste their votes on his tongue.

The vampires and the werewolves and the rest of them who hadn’t come, who had tuned in to listen to the radio, all craned their heads to listen more keenly. There was something in the air, somehting that felt of change and prosperity, but, also, fear of the unknown, trepidation for what was to come. Nothing could be either-way when it came to the election of 1962. Every vote counted. And for some, it was a matter of life or death.

Nobby Leach called forth then: ’’What about the injustice of the squibs? Are they truly expected to be discarded by their families and this world, this magical, wonderful world? It is flawed, yes, I see this first as a **_mudblood_**.’’ The older muggleborns still twitched, but the ones from the Mudpride years looked at Nobby Leach and clapped loudly, cheering him on. Mandy was the loudest, her voice carrying volumes of love. And she had fallen in love with him while handing out fliers with him and being spat on by the purebloods who told them to go back to the muggle world where they belong. ’’But,’’ Nobby Leach’s voice was strong and assured, and unlike Lord Black, he spoke from the heart and believed in justice with all of his might. If not this justice, then Nobby Leach believed in God’s justice. He wore a cross around his throat that many a media had criticized as otherworldly and a show that he is out there to change things that didn’t need changing. ’’Squibs are citizens of this world! They have the right to vote and squib voter turn out is next to null statistically! How can it not be, I ask you! How can it not be when they have never had a candidate that does not look down on them and their existence, doesn’t look down on them like they are _lepers_? I hope, more than anything, that they use this right of theirs because they have been pushed out of Magical Britain. No, I promise you now, this is over. I will fight for you as I will fight for the creatures, as I will fight for the mudbloods, as I will fight for the halfbloods who tell me – and this pains me more than anything - how they fit neither in the muggle world and in the magical world. How it is difficult for them to find jobs, how they have had to flee abroad and learn magic from different masters and see that belief in blood is just as dangerous as spilled blood. Because the former leads to the latter, Magical Britain.’’

Nobby Leach glanced over to Lord Black, and his entire family that had come out to support him. He saw Walburga Black’s black eyes pooling into devouring black holes. He looked away form them then, electing not to get sucked in and side tracked. Legiliemency was always a threat when dealing with the Blacks. He held his hands onto the podium because if he waved them around they would write about his inability to be still and strong, how he was neurotic and unhelpful and ill and most-certainly drugged off of his arse to even be attempting such a thing as running for Minister. ’’Did any of you notice how nobody introduces Lord Black?’’

He could feel Lord Black’s eyes on him. They were always a lot stronger than Walburga’s. More hateful.

The disguised Tom Riddle shouted then, his face broad in a smile and his voice is disguised, too, because there are a couple of people who would be able to tell and he cannot afford that. ’’Oi, right! What is that all about? It’s like the wanker thinks because everyone knows who he is that we’ll all vote for him or somehtin’? NO BLOODS!’’ He shouted then and pumped his fist into the air. When he spotted aurors being signalled to catch the instigator he twirled on his heel and disapparated. Only to later apparate back looking like Tom Riddle. He waved at Abraxas Malfoy, who was _seething._

’’He does not care for any of you. It’s in his bloody House Motto – Toujours Pur. Always pure. There is no conjecture here, there is no possible subtlety here. The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black has built their name and their family fortune on the backs of hardworking mudbloods, halfbloods, creatures, and squibs! It is on the backs of people like US that they get to talk like this and look down on us. In his speech, Lord Black cited that he was going to work harder to lower tax, but that does not benefit any of us – that only benefits the Twenty-Eight – and we all know who the Twenty-Eight. We all know who the Malfoys, the Lestanges, the Blacks, the Notts are.’’

Like a preacher’s son he allowed his own magic to travel through him and out of his mouth, as a companion to his words. He had spent his entire pay check to buy that robe for this, and he said it. He spoke of poverty openly, looking into Septimus Weasley’s eyes as he did so. ’’Their struggles are not ours.’’

’’What struggles?’’ Cohen shouted, having put a wand to her throat to amplify her tone. ’’Half of them get wet over Grindelwald rhetoric! If you mean they’re struggling to accept Grindelwald’s imprisonment, then, oh yes, I can definitely see it!’’

Someone asked Cohen to tone it down. She had to be threatened with a wand to shut up before she did. And only then she did so if not to take too much light off of Nobby Leach.

’’Magical Birtain, our voices have never had this chance before to be heard. I will speak for you, instead of about you. I will protect your interests and I will fight for your voices and your children and our future. I will fight for you, Magical Britain, as diverse and mesmerizing as I know you are!’’

Swept up in the élan of the moment, of the cheering, and the atmosphere, Nobby Leach said: ’’When I say MUDPRIDE, it does not only hold meaning for muggleborns, mudbloods – it represents a safe and welcoming space for squibs, for vampires and veela and werewolves and all creatures whose rights have been tarnished for too long, it welcomes the halfbloods which tell me they have no place in either world, it welcomes the allies of pure blood who tell me that are looked down on by the Twenty-Eight, those of pure blood who tell me that they cannot find abide by the way this world continues to mistreat and abuse others based on blood. So, when I say MUDPRIDE, I mean all of you. I mean all of us! I mean every single one of us that needs to hear their voice represented and heard! MUDPRIDE!’’

A sea of chants echoed: ’’MUDPRIDE! MUDPRIDE!’’

One person added on: ’’NOBLOODS!’’ And everyone mimicked them, singing the words like the sweetest symphony.

Nobby Leach glanced over where Tom Riddle was and winked. Abraxas Malfoy, thinking the wink was aimed at him in form of mockery, seethed even more, sputtering: ’’The NERVE!’’

Tom Riddle didn’t wink back. But he did smile like a goof. That smile would come to cost him, especially because Walburga Black saw and catalogued it for later. 

* * *

’’That was... amazing.’’ Hermione had no words to describe what she felt. She couldn’t fathom it into words.

Her mentor smiled. He almost agreed. ’’I suppose now comes the blatant corruption.’’

Her smile fell. ’’Excuse me?’’

’’Oh yes. Loads of that in politics, on either side.’’

* * *

**_’’I will skin you, Tom Riddle.’’_ **

’’Not if I body slam you _first_ , **_bitch_**. You think I’m above hitting women who are taller than me? Hate to disappoint you, but I’ve wanted to go up against you since the first moment you called me mudblood, you cantankerous cunt.’’

Both Walburga Black and Lord Voldemort aimed their wands at each other.

* * *

  
’’Turns out imperiusing the Wizengamot isn’t as easy as one thinks when Walburga Black went to do the same bloody thing for her father-in-law.’’

’’Oh my God, the absolute corruption from the both of you!’’

* * *

’’You think you can win against me?’’ Walburga Black, an immovable object, said to Lord Voldemort, otherwise referred to as unstoppable force.  
’’I know I can win against you.’’ Lord Voldemort said. ’’I’ll obliviate you and I’ll imperius the lords and ladies of 300 summers.’’

* * *

’’Huh?’’

’’You need to be, at least, one hundred to be a part of the wizengamot.’’

’’What kind of Spartan nonsense is –’’

’’I _really_ do not make the rules of this weird, horrid country, Hermione.’’

* * *

The duel that unleashed itself forth was both legendary and incredibly painful to watch. Mostly because Walburga Black losing didn’t bode well for anyone. She fell after being knocked down by a cruciatus curse. Lord Voldemort hurried to her side and sent a spell that blinded her temporarily so she wouldn’t be able to enter his mind. When such a connection was formed, it was worse than being held under an unforgivable. He did not want Walburga’s lecherous hands curling around his brain.

He pressed a wand to her forehead and said: ‘’Obliviate.’’

She’d remember this transpiring, of course, because she was a Black. But it would buy him time and she would remember it after the vote and then he would do damage control. For now, he needed to work unhindered.

‘’It was fun, Walburga Black. I will admit. Especially fun when I got to rearrange your brain for a change.’’ He laughed and it was not a kind laugh. Oh no. He reserved his cruellest laughs for Walburga Black.

* * *

‘’Did she remember?’’

‘’Of course.’’

‘’What did she do?’’

‘’She made me swear a vow, that when she needed me to do something for her, I would. But only when she was at her lowest, most desperate state.’’

‘’When was this?’’

‘’1970 when she begged me to come back to society. I had barricaded myself in a swamp, you see. It was a very low point for me.’’

‘’Oh yeah, the Dementor swamp. I’d heard rumours about that.’’

‘’Nasty business, Hermione.’’

‘’Right.’’ Hermione nodded.

* * *

Nobby Leach kneeled to propose to Mandy Sullivan before the announcement of the new Minister, saying that he didn’t want it to appear like he only married her because of giddiness and adrenaline. ‘’I love you, Mandy. I love you with all of my heart, be I Minister or not. I will love you and I will always want you by my side.’’

Mandy Sullivan said yes right around the time when someone, it sounded a lot like Cohen, shouted out: ‘’YOU’RE MINISTER, NOBBY! YOU’RE **_BLOODY MINISTER_**!’’

‘’ **MUD** BLOODY thank you very much.’’ Nobby grinned. He smiled with his eyes, too, and that was where he and his opponents differed. They only smiled how the photographs wanted them to.

* * *

Hermione giggled.

Her mentor looked softly at the man. There was love in his crimson, sad eyes.

* * *

It was an office wedding. Neither member of the recent marriage had wanted to change religions for each other. They were adamant about this and therefore agreed to forego the clerical aspect of this union. Neither had a problem with this, what with both the bride and the groom being reasonable and quite savvy people. Their families, however, were a whole other story. This was a difficult situation. One that ultimately led to estrangement and disownment. 

Nobby Leach bent down to sign the piece of paper joining him and Mandy in wonderful and law binding matrimony. Next Mandy signed the paper, glowing brightly in her fancy skirt and blazer. It was not a day full of people. It was only for their loved ones and closest. Given how their blood family (and even the muggles put value on blood, it was obscene) had decided to be petty over whether or not a catholic and a protestant ought to marry, Nobby and Mandy had only invited the two people who did not give a single fuck about such things. 

Lord Voldemort aka Tom Riddle when it came to dealing with muggle affairs bent down to sign his muggle name as Nobby Leach's witness. 

Mandy's witness was a woman who would die swiftly in the first war. It was Cohen. She would later be famous for making jokes about this day. "How many people does it take in order to marry off the Minister for Magic? Four: a catholic, a protestant, an atheist, and a Jew." Then she would laugh at her own joke the hardest, finding it the funniest thing in the world. Tom would nod along, not quite sure if he was allowed to or not.

‘’I am going to forever remember this day!’’ Nobby Leach wiped a tear away. Today was a happy day for him and his wife. 

Mandy took a hold of Nobby's hand in hers and said: "If I had to tell them to fuck off all over again, no matter how difficult, I would do it. Nobby, I love you and I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I want us to grow old together." 

He replied: "Mandy, there are not enough words in the world to describe how you make me feel. Some of them are definitely aggravated and embarrassed because you never hesitate to put me in my place - which Tom tells me is something he appreciates because you make his and mine life much easier." Nobby Leach was the type of person that often went off tangent about things and spoke about the world while forgetting to talk about the current situation. It was a trait of his not many people could get used to. "However, you make me feel like we can do anything. The way you glow with strength and how unapologetic about it you are inspires me. Everyone says that out of the two of us I am the one who inspires, but you are the one who actually gets things done. My talk would be nothing without you. This I want you to know and remember. I am a man with too many ideas, but with you- I am a man who doesn't just talk people's ears off - I am not a man-"

"For the love of god, Nobby, will you get to the point please? There are people waiting to get married." Tom Riddle tapped his foot on the ground.

Nobby flushed red and whispered: "I am so sorry. It appears I am still a man who can talk everyone off their feet." He nervously rubbed the back of his neck and laughed.

Mandy shook her head. "I knew what I was getting into. Don't worry yourself too much, Nobby."

Cohen whispered under her breath: "My husband better not be like this." Then she looked at Riddle for a moment and the contemplative expression which crossed her face passed just as quickly. She fanned her idea away and said: "Traumatized _and_ a goy. My mother would forgive the former, but not the latter."

Soon after their merry band of misfits went to celebrate this recent marriage. 

It was a sight to behold, truly. There was merry singing involved, catastrophic dancing, and hilarious drinking. Cohen remained the only designated driver/apparater. She smiled at her lovely band of drunken idiots and mocked them happily. "Look at you, the lot of you are so drunk you will not even remember you had gotten married. This one forgot how to speak English!"

This one was less known parseltongue Tom Riddle. He was hissing. What he was hissing about was anyone’s guess. 

Their place of partying was none other than the new Leach residence. It was a gift from the Ministry for Magic for the Minister for Magic. Once Cohen saw it she blinked in amazement. "Now I see why Black wanted to be Minister. This place is incredible."

And on one of the many intricate rugs of said incredible place rested the drunken body of one Lord Voldemort aka Tom Riddle. He kept hissing. Mandy attempted to hiss back. Cohen joked about them being very funny together. 

Nobby Leach began sobering up Tom Riddle, who kept looking at him in sheer awe. And this person resembled more Tom Riddle than he did Voldemort. Voldemort was not nearly as hero-worshiping of anyone. But Tom, especially here, looked absolutely smitten. Kind of in that way that most crushes evolved: ‘I want to be him à I want to be WITH him’.

‘’I am never going to have a wife or children.’’ Tom Riddle whispered. He longed for one, secretly, but it was much easier to destroy such wants and yearnings. They did not fit his life nor was it kind to be an immortal parent. He would only face heartbreak were they to die (and yes, he had considered even this – if he ever dared to love, honestly, entirely love – he would need someone immortal to do so with and for. Anything else would be torture). ‘’You are living the dream, Leach.’’

‘’Mandy and I do not want children.’’ Leach wobbled, his being drunk notwithstanding. ‘’But, shhh, that is a secret in a world riddled and run by people who only make children for legacies and the continuation of incestuous blood.’’ Tom Riddle laughed, fully aware who the targets were in this jab. He did not even need to speak their name. This day was about the Leach couple and their additional misfits. No, Cohen wasn’t a misfit, she was much too practical for that. Too practical not to run from Britain in time because she was spending too much time planning said escape down to a tee.

‘’What a life.’’ Tom Riddle continued. He leaned hard against Nobby Leach, but not hard enough to topple them both down.

It was this point that Tom Riddle got too lazy to move. He forced Leach to drag him along like a sack of potatoes. ‘’It is good practise for when Mandy sends you grocery shopping.’’

‘’I wonder if today is just going to be remembered by the amount of terrible jokes we’ve made and not that Mandy and I got married...’’

‘’I’ve got a good one about a catholic priest and an orphanage matron!’’ Tom Riddle exclaimed, his eyes aglow with victory. Nobby Leach sighed and let him tell the joke wobbly. He was being dragged to a bathroom where Nobby Leach grabbed a hold of a shower head, aimed it at Tom Riddle, and turned the water on.

After some sputtering, Tom Riddle (who looked like a wet rat at this point) asked him what it felt like to have a family.

Nobby Leach, who had earned family and lost family because of each other, sighed. ‘’I asked you once what it was like without a family and you said it was complicated. It’s complicated this way around, as well.’’

Tom nodded. He looked dejected as he leaned against the bathtub. ‘’I cannot understand why you asked me to be your best man.’’

‘’Because you’re my best mate.’’

Tom nodded. He was still disbelieving. ‘’Right.’’ It didn’t feel right. ‘’That makes sense.’’ It didn’t to him. People wanting to be his friend still didn’t make any sense nor did it feel right or acceptable. The orphanage children had treated him like the antichrist, the Slytherins like a leper, and the rest like a god to endear themselves to. Nobby had always just treated him like a person.

Nobby Leach tried to move around Tom Riddle, ultimately decided it was too much effort, and plopped down on the wet tiled floor. He regarded Tom with a cheeky grin. Tom grinned back at him, equally as pissed. They laughed after only a single moment more. The sight in front of them, respectively, was too hilarious not to laugh at.

Their laughter died down. Nobby Leach couldn’t resist filling with another monologue. This one, however, he had kept short and concise. He moved towards Tom and placed a hand on his shoulder, squeezing some awareness into the other, somewhat sober man. ‘’Mate, whatever you like to be called, Voldemort, Tom, I don’t mind any of it. I want you to know that you always have a place with me. No matter what. You may not have had a family growing up, but I’m your family now.’’

* * *

Hermione looked at her mentor and remembered him saying this exact same thing to her in a Munich hotel bathroom.

* * *

Nobby backtracked quickly, as if realising he’d let on too much. ‘’Mandy and I are your family. _Mandy_ and I. Not just me. No, no, Mandy and I. Yeah. Mate, biological family – not all that. Look at _my_ biological family – told me to never contact them again because I was going to besmirch the family and its values by marrying the woman of my dreams.’’ It hurt Leach to mention this. He had always dreamed of his father and mother being there at his wedding. Of his father maybe even officiating his wedding. Small tears formed in the corner of Leach’s eyes. He rubbed them away quickly and tried to laugh them off.

‘’My father bloody asked me to leave when he saw me for the first time.’’

‘’Fucker, see! They think because they made you they’re entitled to be shitty to you when you need them the most! No, blood family is out. Found family is in. Chosen family. Found family. I don’t know what you wanna call it.’’ Nobby Leach was going to need to drink an intense amount of water the following morning just to function normally. A lad he was not. Well, compared to Tom Riddle he was (but, really, anyone was), but compared to his wife he wasn’t.

Mandy and Cohen were having a genuinely articulate conversation meanwhile the best man and the groom had devolved into two hurt men talking about how hurt and scarred emotionally they were.

Vaguely Leach heard Mandy say to Cohen: ‘’And I think we’ll paint the master bedroom a nice beige.’’

Cohen, here, nodded. ‘’Sounds about right.’’

But, back to the matter at hand – Tom Riddle was existing and by seeing his existence, Nobby Leach was overcome with lots of emotions. Most prominent of which currently could be summed up as Leach’s need to comfort everyone around himself and therefore himself, as well. ‘’I'm your family now. Stop crying over this. Nobody needs blood relatives anymore. It's dépassée!’’

Tom Riddle slowly blinked. Nobby Leach, who had owned a cat during Hogwarts, was incredibly touched by this show of trust. He fell over Tom and they hugged like absolute loons. It turned out to be a day everyone remembered in varying degrees of embarrassment.

* * *

‘’You were family.’’ Hermione’s mouth turned to ash as she finished that statement. She could not fathom it. ‘’He asked you to be his best man…’’ Why would anyone do this willingly and later on turn their back and kill someone like Nobby Leach? Hermione needed to see more.

Her mentor warned her as the new memory morphed around them: ‘’They do not get easier to look at.’’

* * *

Nobby Leach and Voldemort – because he was Voldemort at the time – were sitting out on the back patio of the Leach residence. It ought to show how much Voldemort trusted Leach to accept clear water from him without any fear. Leach had something a tad stronger. He said that he’d gotten vodka from a benefactor. ’’They, my dear opposition, think I’m a communist and I’m inclined to believe them.’’ Leach merrily laughed. Just near the end of said laugh it fell down into murky waters of humourless force. Even he didn’t have enough strength to keep playing up his positive attitude and outlook on life. Sometimes, and this was important to know, it was okay not to be happy. Sometimes it was okay to be tired.

And Leach was tired. He had a child of a pureblood lord sleeping under his roof, half-obliviated, half-crying. Neither Voldemort nor Leach knew what to do with him. They had Mandy tend to him, as cowardly as that was. She’d just given him something to drink that knocked him out. It seemed that she was the worst equipped to take care of him. At least, what with her being a healer, she ought to know the correct dosage.

Mandy trailed down to the patio and conjured herself a third chair. She plopped down on it and asked Leach if he could get her a stiff drink. ’’I’m Irish, remember, sweetheart.’’

’’I know what a stiff drink is, love.’’

’’I don’t know what you know.’’ Mandy fanned away tiredly. She looked at Voldemort and asked him while Nobby went inside to fetch them drinks. ’’What possessed you to bring him here?’’

’’Forgive me for finding it uncomfortable to watch a child get hit in front of me by a man I thought I lo-cared for deeply.’’

Mandy snorted at his lack of emotional intelligence. ’’You can’t even say you love a man you’ve been living with for years. You’ve been having sex with.’’

’’Sex shouldn’t be an indicator of love.’’

Mandy inclined her head to agree. ’’True. It shouldn’t. It isn’t.’’ She made a grimace that Voldemort found very comical. ’’Do you know what an indicator of love is, Voldemort?’’

He could feel that this wasn’t going to paint him in a good light. He nearly didn’t dare to ask. But, it was Mandy. Mandy had never hurt him more than he could handle, nor had she done so maliciously. He would give her the benefit of the doubt. ’’What, o great Mind Healer Leach?’’

She cracked a small smile at that title, thrilled at her accomplishments and exhausted by the mess it was causing her and her loved one’s lives. Nobody took her merit as her own while her husband was Minister for Magic. Nepotism was a word that purebloods tossed around quite frequently, whereas only a couple of years ago they would never dare call true nepotism by this word in fear of ruffling a few peacock feathers.

’’An indicator of love is to stop your loved one from self-destructing. Not to self-destruct alongside him.’’ Her words of wisdom got overshadowed by Leach’s entrance. He held two glasses of vodka now, which he happily clinked when he handed one to his wife. ’’We’re going to drink and we’re going to forget that this house has an underage resident in it.’’ Leach turned to Voldemort then and said. ’’While I do appreciate what you did, please, don’t bring him over again. Abraxas Malfoy strikes me as the kind of person to... how do you say it... hmmm... find a way to make even the most innocuous sleepover into some scandal. My re-election is coming along and I do not need that.’’ He topped this off with taking a shot of his vodka and coughing at the end of it. ’’Christ.’’ He blinked rapidly. ’’That packs a punch.’’

Voldemort moved from his seat to stand and look at Leach. ’’About that,’’

Mandy whispered, ’’I knew it.’’ She said louder at Voldemort’s prompt, more heated this time, ’’I knew you wouldn’t imperius them again. You’re losing control over your little following, aren’t you? As much as they respect and revere you,’’ she was standing now, so quickly that the chair fell behind her, ’’they **_hate_** Nobby even more.’’

’’I never said this.’’ Voldemort hissed, nearly flinging himself into parseltongue. ’’I never said this at all, Mandy. You ought to watch your mouth.’’

’’You’re a coward ** _, Head Boy_**!’’ Mandy shouted and her words razed him to the ground. ’’You don’t have enough nerve to tell Abraxas to get his behaviour under control so you flee with his son to us – as if we owe that brat anything.’’ She shook in his presence, balling her hands into tight fists. ’’We do not owe him anything. We aren’t an orphanage nor some mock up of the Red Cross. Having him here is dangerous for us, for Nobby. For Minister Leach.’’

’’Mandy,’’ Leach tried to intervene between the two heated geniuses. He was a genius, too, in his own way. But they were the more easily noticeable of the trio. ’’Mandy, there is no need to attack Voldemort like this. He has been our ally.’’

’’Ally?’’ Mandy scoffed. She pointed at her scar. ’’Some ally.’’

’’You should consider not running.’’ Voldemort said just in time for Mandy’s raucous laughter. She shouted: ’’I knew it!’’ There was no triumph in that ’told you so’. Only disappointment.

Nobby Leach could see beyond people. He could see beyond their words. It was one of the reasons why he had gotten along with Voldemort for such a long, long time. He told Mandy that he wanted to hear what Voldemort had to say, but Mandy (who would learn only later how to be calm in a world of injustice) said that she didn’t need to be here for this. ’’I am going on a walk.’’ With a crack she apparated.

Leach led Voldemort inside gently, coaxing him through the threshold like a baby deer. He sat him down on a couch in their sitting room and asked him if he might want some of that vodka. ’’I do not drink.’’ Voldemort said. ’’Not often. I speak parseltongue when I get too drunk and nobody can understand me. There is a lot of room for misinterpretation because of this.’’

’’A creature of caution.’’ Leach snorted and decided against pouring himself a third shot of vodka. He sat down next to him on the couch, leaned back leisurely, crossed his legs, looked ahead at a painting of a supporter of his politics (it was either a copy of a Picasso or an actual work by him, Leach had forgotten what he’d been told), and said: ’’Mandy thinks that I cannot win without getting the wizengamot under control.’’

’’She is correct.’’ Voldemort admitted. ’’You do not hear the purebloods, as well. When they are behind closed doors – in rooms I happen to be in when they talk of politics and assassination attempts – ’’

’’Do you obliviate them?’’

’’I plant an idea in their mind that it isn’t worth suffering a Dementor’s Kiss for.’’

’’How many times have you had to do this sort of thing? To stop people from wanting to barge into my home like this and kill me?’’

’’Well, they never imagine killing you in your home, actually. They all suffer from some sort of superiority complex thrust upon them by their environment so they all want to kill you in the public atrium of the Ministry.’’

Leach laughed. He actually found joy in hearing this. Next he clapped. ’’I love it! Now that shows character.’’

’’Are you ignoring the fact that the Twenty-Eight actively want to end you? I keep placating them and telling them not to exert energy for a one time thing. A fluke in the system.’’

Nobby Leach’s smile faded. ’’A fluke?’’ He nodded. ’’I understand that you would have to frame it like that. Of course, you have to make them believe that you are on their side, when, in fact, you are on ours.’’

’’I am on mine.’’

’’You are my best man, Voldemort. I hardly believe that you can be so detached from my and Mandy’s cause? No,’’ he corrected himself hastily, ’’this is the cause of halfbloods like you, mudbloods like us, creatures like that poor Lupin child – got bit as a kid and now he’s going to live in a heinously misunderstanding world for the rest of his life – if we _don’t_ do anything. And, of course, squibs. Squibs that have every damned right to live in this world and have just as many opportunities as our population. Sure, they can’t do everything because they lack magic – but do you think it’s such a faraway concept to have someone working at Hogwarts that isn’t magic?’’

’’It’s never been done before.’’

’’Not even as a bloody caretaker? You don’t think a squib can clean? I bet they can. I bet they can do a lore more than that if they’re just given a chance and a podium to shine on and show the world what they can truly offer.’’ Leach uncrossed his legs and crossed them the other way. He leaned in a different way then to better regard Voldemort’s facial expressions. ’’Do you think that it is really that difficult to grasp that I want equality in a world I love? In a world that is supposed to belong to us all? I want to stop the gatekeeping.’’

’’You are being far too idealistic.’’ Voldemort groaned. He groaned because he couldn’t fathom what he wanted to say into words. ’’You aren’t there. You don’t hear how they speak, Leach. You are my friend, my longest friend, and I must tell you this.’’

Leach grabbed his hand, against his better judgement, or _because_ of his best judgement. ’’I appreciate it. Truly I do. Without you I would not have this power nor a platform to speak and implement my ideas.’’

’’Nobby Leach and his ideas.’’ Voldemort said it with love. Everyone else said it with exalted hate. He pulled away his hand first. ’’I am begging you to think clearly about this. Are you sure you will run again?’’

’’I have so many things to do that I have not yet.’’ Minister Nobby Leach gently said. He looked to the Picasso painting hanging in front of them. It depicted what one could assume was a rider on a horse.

Voldemort sighed deeply. His voice wavering as he sighed. In order to keep himself sane and to alleviate the tension built after these words, he asked, suddenly: ’’Is that supposed to be Don Quixote?’’

Leach peered a little more intently at the painting. He tilted his head: ’’I think so.’’

A laugh tore from Voldemort’s mouth then. ’’Oh _how_ _fitting_.’’

* * *

It was during the re-election of Minister Leach that the aforementioned Minister dared to do something out of character. He wore his wedding ring proudly, a faithful man that he was in every sense of the word. They did not have children and it was a curiosity that got brought up over and over again to make him seem bad. And Mandy had first begun saying that they were hopeful that they would be blessed with a child, soon. If only to take away any rumours that they did not want children, or goodness forbid, didn’t sleep together as husband and wife. There were fickle things to take care of when in such rigorous and blinding spotlight.

Things that Mandy and Nobby were careful to take care of.

The re-election wasn’t spent with the team. Well, it was. It was spent with Cohen, Mandy, and Lord Voldemort. Nobby Leach had said he would be at home with his team waiting for the results. Voldemort had infused the wards around the Leach residence to keep certain people away and to never be able to see certain people come in. Lots of dark magic business to be seen, ahem, if one were an amateur. Lord Voldemort was not.

He stretched out on a couch and waited for the results like he did New Years. Except it wasn’t nearly as depressing because his birthdays tended to be subpar at best. This was more… nerve wracking.

Cohen and Mandy were going over plans, never quite ready to settle down and enjoy the moment. Their minds were hot-wired to create new schedules and new spider webs for networking.

Nobby Leach sat down next to Voldemort. His cheeks burned red from the mulled wine he had begun making. Absinthe was all well and good, but it reminded him too much of family that had discarded him. Mulled wine seemed to be a thing that he made for enjoyment. He offered some to Voldemort, who took him up on the offer. ‘’You will make an alcoholic of me, yet.’’

‘’I hope one day you might gain a resistance. Being a light weight at your age is nothing to laud, my Lord.’’

Voldemort loved being called my lord. Given how Abraxas called him Tom pointedly and reminded him of his muggle roots, having Nobby Leach call him by his chosen title and name sent a shiver of pleasure down his spine. He lifted his glass of mulled wine and clinked it against Nobby Leach’s: ‘’Thank you, my Minister.’’ There was a world of fondness gathered in that last word.

Nobby Leach looked away and took a sip of his mulled wine, quick to get away before he had to come to terms with the feelings nestling in his chest, much alike how he had nestled cut out shards of orange and lemon into the wine.

He went to see what Mandy was up to. Soon they started dancing. Cohen stood by the radio and listened, telling them to silence the darned music and that, yes, they were all so bloody adorable and cute and IT WASN’T ABOUT LOVE RIGHT NOW. IT WAS ABOUT POLITICS!

Voldemort agreed. ‘’Ugh.’’ The mulled wine was hitting him. He had yet to find one alcoholic drink that didn’t outright demolish him. Cohen told him that he needed to ease up on the drinking else he was going to end up in a ditch somewhere. ‘’Or a swamp.’’ She said offhandedly. ‘’You might end up in a swamp without your recollection.’’

‘’If I go to a bleeding swamp, Cohen, I’ll go fully sober and hating myself.’’

* * *

‘’So mote it _was_.’’ Her mentor winked and snapped his finger.

Hermione didn’t know how to react to her mentor. Sometimes it was quite obvious he was a teacher at heart because only a teacher would do something so embarrassing. ‘’Right.’’ She only nodded.

* * *

  
When they announced that Nobby Leach had become Minister, yet again, there was uproar at home. Minister Leach flung himself to kiss his wife. This lasted a good minute, really. Cohen and Voldemort never could fathom such ease when it came to public shows of affection, them being in the Leach residence notwithstanding.

‘’I’ll become bloody jealous, I will. Oi!’’ Lord Voldemort was tipsy. He knew this because every word that came out of his mouth sounded like it represented all of Woolwich at once. He stood up and walked over to Nobby Leach to congratulate him on a job well done and that he hoped that his thirst might finally be quenched. That once this was done he would quietly leave politics – but he didn’t get to any of that. Because, Nobby Leach turned from his wife, saw Lord Voldemort, got swept up in all of his emotions, and pulled him close. But he didn’t do anything. No, he _hesitated_. Lord Voldemort felt Nobby’s hand on his cheek and blinked, giving him a lopsided smile. ‘’My minister. Do you want to kiss me?’’ He bared his teeth in a filthy, wanting grin.

It was like nothing existed around them. Time stretched. Nobby Leach only saw Voldemort and Voldemort only saw Nobby Leach. He saw him as he leaned closer, more assured now that he saw that Voldemort would not mock him. And why would he mock him? Why would Nobby Leach think that a man who lived in another man’s house would mock him for wanting this? For wanting him like everyone had wanted him, from Myrtle Warren to Abraxas Malfoy. But there was a difference when it came to the way Myrtle Warren had looked at him with obsession and how Abraxas Malfoy looked at him with dependence.

Nobby Leach closed his eyes when they kissed. Voldemort leaned forward into the kiss, tasting mulled wine and love and triumph and peace. He looped his hands around him and held him close, tasting him, savouring this moment as if it had come straight from one’s deepest desire.

‘’Should we kiss?’’ Cohen asked, then. ‘’It seems to be the theme.’’

‘’No, we should bloody not kiss.’’ Mandy said. She was a heterosexual, thank you, and not nearly drunk enough to drunk kiss her best friend. ‘’Whatever the hell this is, it’s a long time coming and I’ll demand an explanation properly after.’’

Voldemort laughed into the kiss when he registered Mandy’s words. Of course, Nobby had fancied him. It would make sense. Now that he was free from his parents and their influence that he would prove more daring. He ran his hand through Nobby’s hair and claimed him all for himself. It was a possessive hold. He wouldn’t let go unless Nobby wanted to. And he did, after a time.

The expression on Nobby Leach’s face was surprised when they parted. ‘’Oh my lord.’’ He couldn’t help but say through a giggle.

Lord Voldemort found himself winking: ‘’Yes,’’ he said, ‘’I am.’’

* * *

Hermione just raised her hands in the air and said: ‘’I have no words.’’

‘’Well, you found four.’’

Hermione glared at him.

* * *

Nobby Leach was sitting at the piano, playing a tune that all three parties knew very well. Outside of their window, their home, snow fell in abundance.

‘’I really can't stay – ‘’ A man’s voice sing sang. He had a playful smile on his face.

‘Baby it's cold outside.’’ Mandy Leach pulled the man closer. She winked at him and mouthed: ‘’My lord.’’  
‘’I've got to go away –‘’ Voldemort cracked a brighter smile as he tried to escape Mandy’s hold and go to the front door of the Leach residence. Nobby’s piano accompanied them.

‘’Baby it's cold outside~’’ Mandy was relentless. Her pitch was perfect. Not only that, but her confidence was seductive in a way Voldemort didn’t yet know why he found seductive. It was all powerplays with him, he’d later crystalize and find out that he quite liked people who led during these liaisons. It was a tad too much to ask of him to constantly be the one planning things out. Sometimes a man just wanted to follow along and have a fun time.

‘’This evening has been – ‘’ Voldemort sang,

Mandy sang over him: ‘’Been hoping that you'd drop in.’’

‘’-So very nice –‘’

‘’I'll hold your hands, they're just like ice.’’ Mandy took a hold of Voldemort’s hands in hers and had to say that she wasn’t exaggerating, song lyric aside.  
  
‘’Abraxas will start to worry –‘’ Voldemort deliberately changed the lyrics to fit their narrative. He found it funny. Nobby Leach laughed at the piano. It _was_ funny.

‘’Beautiful, what's your hurry?’’ Mandy raised and lowered her brows like an absolute fiend. Voldemort nearly lost his character and burst out laughing.

He looked outside and saw that a somewhat snowstorm was forming. Magical weather was very unpredictable. It was bloody July and someone had cursed the sky. Voldemort bet all of his money on their professor Kettleburn being behind this. That man was a walking disaster creator.

‘’Lilith will be pacing the floor – ‘’ Voldemort was lacking people in his life that fit this lyrical beat. He sacrificed Lilith Selwyn for the task.

‘’Listen to the fireplace roar.’’ Mandy directed.

‘’So really I'd better scurry –‘’

‘’Beautiful,’’ and there was something magical in the way Mandy called him beautiful, ‘’please don't hurry.’’

‘’Maybe just a half a drink more –‘’ Voldemort grabbed a drink off of the nearby table as a prop.

‘’Put some records on while I pour.’’ Mandy said, walking specifically nearby Nobby. He mouthed: _Hey_.  
  
‘’The neighbours might think –‘’ Voldemort tapped his foot against the ground.

‘’Baby, it's bad out there.’’ Mandy poured some juice into Voldemort’s glass.

‘’Say, what's in this drink?’’ Voldemort asked, peering inside of his glass. Leach broke his silence to say, just over Mandy’s lyrics: ‘’A little bit of amortentia, I reckon.’’

Voldemort sipped his juice, fully aware that neither of these parties present would ever do something so grave to him. Mandy, on the other hand, became more offended about the joke where she demanded that Nobby apologize for it. She was the Healer out of the three of them, she knew the effects it had on people in the most clinical sense.

Only once Nobby apologize did she finish her lyircs: ‘’No cabs to be had out there!’’

‘’I wish I knew how –‘’ Voldemort walked over to their liquor cabinet and made juice vodka for himself. It made him want to learn Russian.

‘’Your eyes are like starlight now~’’ Mandy neared him again and gazed into his somewhat crimson eyes. It was the least truthful lyric of all. They all admitted it. It brought a faint, amused smile to each of their faces.

‘’To break this spell –‘’ Voldemort finished.

Mandy conjured him a hat on and sang as she took it off: ‘’I’ll take your hat, your hair looks swell.’’ Her hand ran through his hair and tousled it gently.  
  
‘’I ought to say no, no, no,’’ Voldemort cracked a brief grin, knowing very well that he trusted only these people present with him to take those words seriously.

‘’Mind if I move in closer?’’ Mandy breached his personal space and snuggled up to his chest, grabbing his hands in hers and batting her eyelids.

‘’At least I'm gonna say that I tried –‘’

‘’What's the sense in hurting my pride?’’ Mandy almost broke character at this line, finding it utterly hilarious.  
‘’I really can't stay –‘’

‘’Baby don't holdout!’’ Mandy pressed. She wrapped an arm of Voldemort’s around herself and danced.

‘’Ah,’’ all three sang in unison, ‘’but it's cold outside.’’

Finally, they allowed each other to laugh.

* * *

Hermione looked to her mentor and asked him: ‘’What’s wrong?’’

He was trying to remain put-together. It was a difficult endeavour. His voice cracked. ‘’This was the last time we were all together.’’

* * *

Abraxas Malfoy walked through the Ministry for Magic easily. He would not be stopped. He would not be asked about his business. When someone looked at him, they saw nothing out of the ordinary. Felix Felicis left a taste in his mouth that smelled of victory.

His fingers brushed gently against his willow wand. The robe he wore, as well, didn’t indicate anything out of the ordinary. It was just as obscene as all of the other robes he’d worn now that he could dress himself without anyone nagging at him not to embarrass the Malfoy name and reputation. He would find that dressing up in bold colours had little to nothing to do with actually disrespecting his family name.

He did not say hello to anyone passing by him, letting them all know that he was incredibly busy and going on a mission of sorts that better not be interrupted. There was a craze in his eyes, this he was certain was evident. Well, no, that wouldn’t be quite polite to say, would it? It wasn’t a craze. It was **_cocaine_**. His pupils were shot wide and he moved as quickly as a Dementor after spotting new food to feast on.

The way his feet pounded against the intricate marble floor reminisced that of a general leading an army. This general, to make matters worse, had a shitty, shitty day and he was taking it out on his clacking footsteps, hitting the floor harder than was necessary.

His mind was a maelstrom of thoughts and ideas each worse than the last. The world was in front of him. And he, in his jumbled mind, knew that it needed saving. He knew that this world needed someone to save it from the mudbloods and the upstarts and that someone, oh, that someone was going to be him.

There was a man sitting in auror robes on a chair. He was half-dozing off, half-paying attention to his surroundings. They taught them this during auror training. He spotted Abraxas Malfoy and woke up, or at least opened up his eyes. And what a sight it was to see this man with **_two_** eyes.

* * *

’’Wait... that looks like...’’

’’Alastor Moody, yes.’’

* * *

’’I have business with the Minister.’’ Abraxas said the title as hatefully as he could. Then, realising his mistake, he tried to amend it, all while snorting and twitching in an obvious fashion. ’’Are you going to tell me where he is or should I just divine it from your expression?’’

Alastor Moody didn’t immediately tell Abraxas what he wanted to hear. It was, as if, he was contemplating whether or not that seemed like a sound idea. But the fatigue could be seen crawling all over his form, nestling in his eye bags and just giving him that overall exhausted working man look. He was young, much younger than Hermione remembered him as, but he was much less careful. As youth tended to be. At the end of the day he could see how much he was itching to get that cup of coffee and enjoy his five-minute break and he had planned it all out specifically during this period – only for Abraxas Malfoy (a respectable and influential and dangerous member of society) to come and demand an audience with the Minister.

Moody contemplated. He thought hard and long about what to do. His father and grandfather were aurors. His mother and grandmother as well. They had to have, at least once, done something that didn’t perfectly abide by the book? Alastor gave a grimace. Abraxas waited. His foot tapped against the marble floor hard and quick and annoyed. His fingertips twitched. His face kept spasaming, as well.

Any other man or woman or otherwise inclined would have seen something was wrong with this picture. But Moody was verging on twelve hours. His colleague had lost his mother and therefore couldn’t come in today. Moody was an admirable and wonderful auror that had decided he did not mind to take over his shift as well. Now, now that was going to not only give him a headache he already felt come his way, but his decision was going to cost him an eye, too. Because, and this was the real kicker, he looked at Abraxas Malfoy, leaned closer, and whispered: ‘’Mind telling me your business with the Minister, Lord Malfoy?’’

Lord Malfoy twitched up a smile. His eyes glowed and they were remarkably silver. Moody had only ever seen this shade before upon gazing into Elektra Lovegood’s eyes. Now that was a scary bird, if nobody minded Alastor saying so.

* * *

‘’What’s wrong with him?’’ Hermione asked.

Her mentor just looked at her, unsure of how to proceed. He cleared his throat and finally answered: ‘’Abraxas Malfoy is a drug addict. Cocaine, specifically. He said that it made him a seer and that it amplified his connection to the deceased.’’

‘’That’s…’’ Hermione looked at Abraxas and her insides turned, ‘’I did not know that.’’

* * *

‘’I wish to speak with the Minister,’’ and how eloquent Abraxas remained while high on cocaine still was something to watch out for, something that Moody, in his tired and fed-up state wasn’t doing, ‘’about his newest couple of ideas. You know how he is. So full of them all the time.’’ Then he couldn’t quite keep up the cheerful façade, finding the matter too disgusting for him. He rubbed his index finger against his thumb and embedded his nail as he tried to keep track of what to speak next. ‘’It is a wholly informative matter, Mr. Moody.’’

And Moody really wanted to believe it. Bloody hell he really needed a bathroom break, too. So, he turned a blind eye just once, thinking that nothing too terrible would happen. Certainly not the beginning to the end of the most prosperous time in the Ministry for Magic.

‘’Aye, go on ahead.’’ Moody turned a blind eye. He was quite lovingly looking towards the bathroom and the pot of coffee not too far.

* * *

Her mentor snorted. Hermione asked him what was funny. He answered: ‘’Abraxas once told me that since Moody had turned a blind eye, Abraxas had turned his eye blind. It was the first moment of guilt I ever saw in him.’’

* * *

Abraxas nodded. He almost apparated into the office.

* * *

Hermione saw Abraxas Mlafoy, but it was exactly as if she didn’t see him because the man circling Nobby Leach was not the man she’d grown fond of and likened to family. This man looked hateful and inexplicable If Hermione crossed paths with him then she was sure that he would have harmed her without a single thought of guilt coursing through him.

She glanced to her mentor for aid, realising that this was something she found frightening. He felt her eyes on him and offered her his hand. Hermione took it. She saw Nobby Leach, wearing his Ministry apparel, greeting Abraxas with nothing but utmost respect and politeness.

He smiled even, unafraid where Hermione didn’t know if she would be able to stand up against the imposing presence of Abraxas Malfoy. It could be because she had never seen Abraxas Malfoy in this light.

She had never seen him in a fight or ever this angry, or this out of his mind, but it scared Hermione to look upon Abraxas Malfoy like this. He was unrecognizable. The sight of him chilled her. Even further when she compared this man to the cheerful old man that she knew him as.

He glared daggers at Nobby Leach. He had yet to greet Leach back, electing to take out his wand oh so casually, as if he purposefully acted like that wasn’t a threat in on itself. He kept glaring at Leach, and he wished for nothing more than to scream an agony of curses upon the outsider mudblood, but something stopped him.

Hermione asked what it was that stopped Abraxas from killing Leach upon sight.

’’He had a plan that he wanted to keep intact. Also, he had drunk Felix Felicis, Hermione. He had wanted to cause nothing but grave misfortune to Nobby Leach. I brought you into my mind to see how he devised Nobby Leach’s death. That I was the easy out for his crime. I may have been responsible for a lot of atrocity, but this was not one of them, Hermione. This death is not mine to claim. Please, never forget this. People whom you love and cherish are capable of the grotesque and you must be ready to accept that. You, yourself, are capable of doing the most macabre deeds, sweet child. Nobody will tell you this, but you have to be better than that part of yourself. You have to be, Hermione, or else this part of yourself will devour you. Like it had devoured Abraxas.’’

Abrxas, then, speared Leach with the most inquisitive as well as the angriest look he could muster. Following this he said, nonchalantly, how much he had waited for this moment where he had gotten a hold of Nobby Leach all to himself so they could speak eye to eye.

‘’I must speak with you about your newest idea.’’ Abraxas said the word as derisively as he could. And that was such a strange thing to hear, wasn’t it? To hear a word that had only ever been used in a positive context when it came to Leach’s mind, be warped into something this irate and vile. ‘’I have a few **_notes_**. If you would be kind enough to permit me to speak.’’

Nobby asked if Abraxas wished to sit down and, then, he told him that how he was happy to talk about any and all questions and misgivings that Abraxas might be having. Abraxas laughed then, unable to help himself. He laughed at Leach and said that he had a lot of nerve to take pagan rituals from the pagans. ‘’You disgust me.’’

Abraxas continued over whatever Leach wanted to say: ‘’You have the audacity to change the world you have stolen your way in. Whoever it is that you robbed of their magic has suffered, but we, _too_ , have suffered.’’

* * *

‘’Excuse me?’’

‘’I regret having this in my mind. I must confess that he makes bloody zero sense. I took this memory from him in order to see what he was on about and what his plan was, but it is legitimately 100% cocaine talk.’’

* * *

‘’You came into our world, a world that doesn’t belong to you and will never belong to you and to have the nerve, the audacity to change things? Nobby Leach, faux Minister, I must confess myself surprised and disgusted that you want to make my father’s world into a chaotic mess of religion and barbarism! I think not! I will make sure to fight for the freedom of my people from oppression and thieves like you! My world is perfect just the way it is. Your abuse will not be tolerated nor will I allow it to infest the minds of proper witches and wizards any longer. I am their saviour. I am the seer that foretells your fall and by the strength and power vested in me by my family’s gods I will put a stop to your evil machinations.’’

‘’I think that this a very interesting topic that we can talk more in depth about. Please, take a seat, Lord Malfoy.’’ To the untrained eye, Nobby Leach would look completely at ease. But Hermione’s mentor said that he was scared. Rightfully so. He kept glancing outside to see if there was any security. There wasn’t. It would seem that that Constant Vigilance would come as a direct result of this failure.

‘’Do I want to live in a world that has my children going to mandatory brainwashing classes wherein they are taught about your so called God, your rituals – which, by the way you’ve, aha, yes, simply, stolen from the pagans and perverted into something unrecognizable and untrue!’’

‘’Now that’s just not true!’’ Nobby Leach shouted. He couldn’t help himself.

Abraxas sneered when he heard him speak up, finding the Minister a parasite of society. ‘’Your kind… Your kind, you _mudbloods_ , know only how to steal and force your way of life on real mages like me and my ancestors. You are unclean and evil. You say you want equality, but no, you actually want to dwindle purebloods away until there’s _nothing_ of my father’s and his father’s world. I will not be idle as you strip away my rights and put me into a pile with the creatures, halfbloods, and mudbloods like YOU.’’

‘’Lord Malfoy,’’ Nobby Leach must have moved too suddenly for Abraxas’ taste because – and this was painful to admit – Abraxas quickly fired off a petrificus totalus at Leach, freezing him mid-sentence.

‘’I will _not_ stand by and let you bar me from celebrating my Samhain rights and and – and I will not let you take all of this way from me! It is the only time I get to speak to my father and my ancestors. He has been taken from me once and I could do nothing. I will not allow him to be taken from me again. And especially not by the likes of **_you_** , Leach. You, much alike a leech, have simply embedded yourself into a world and culture that will never be yours and you take and take and take and take! Well, let me show you how evil mudbloods are. You have always wanted to take our rights, I could see it in your eyes whenever I would be better than you. I could see how you hungered for our prestige and power. You have ALWAYS been evil. Your kind has ALWAYS inflicted your way of life onto us without our consent. IT IS THE BLOODY REASON, IS IT NOT, THAT WE HAD TO HIDE AWAY!’’

Nobby Leach, what with being immobile, tried his best to articulate through his eyes that he thought this a great matter of bullshit. Abraxas pretended he was blind.

‘’I will use an evil and despicable spell that your kind has once abused us with. It is time to give you a taste of the horror mudbloods and muggles who believing your fake God have done to us!’’

Abraxas cast the Theophilius hex of Enlightenment on Leach. As the spell took hold of Leach, Abraxas whispered: ‘’I will show you true enlightenment, _Minister_. In the name of your so called God and saviour I want you to confess your crimes to me!’’

‘’Well, I did jaywalk yesterday.’’ Nobby Leach admitted, now free from the petrificus totalus to move about, but unable to because his mind had been taken over by a spell.

Abraxas fumed. He twisted his hand and pushed more of his magic onto Leach, thinking that the man had fought the spell, when in fact he had simply replied what he constituted a crime. ‘’Tell me about your crimes against pureblood kind!’’

Nobby Leach stared through Abraxas, unable to comprehend what he’d been ordered. ‘’I don’t have any crimes against them.’’

Abraxas tightened his hands into fists. He moved closer to Leach, who remained smiling and numb. He lifted one of his hands and was just about to bring it down on Leach, when an idea came to him. And if people thought that Nobby Leach and his ideas were dangerous, they had never seen Abraxas and his ideas in action.

Slowly, casually, beautifully he leaned into Nobby Leach’s space to say: ‘’Oh.’’ And what a soft ‘oh’ this was. One of the gentlest, softest, most wonderful sounds in Abraxas’ vocabulary. ‘’You cannot help it, can you, darling?’’

Nobby Leach didn’t really know what was going on. Twas a shame, really. Otherwise he’d reply with one of his dry quips that weren’t so much dry as they were long-winded and extremely inspiring.

Abraxas smiled. ‘’You’re beyond help, aren’t you?’’ The smile widened. ‘’I suppose there isn’t any use to you anymore. Your existence must be painful. I ought to relieve you of the burden.’’ He laughed, then: ‘’Oh my! I’m _saving_ you!’’

* * *

‘’That rehab must have been killer.’’

‘’Took him about two years to get clean. There was a lot of back and forth. Black told me he ran out a few times with a muggle.’’

‘’I’m glad he’s clean.’’ Hermione said.

‘’Well. I imagine he’ll forever have substance abuse issues.’’

Hermione, in order to distract herself from high on cocaine Abraxas, decided to mention old Abraxas: ‘’You know, he still likes you a lot.’’

‘’I poisoned the man, Hermione.’’

‘’Hey, if anything, at least I’m not completely on his side now. He’s no saint. That’s what this is all teaching me.’’

‘’He’s a terrible human being.’’

‘’You’re perfect for each other.’’

‘’Hermione, I’ll tell you exactly what I told Zorka: my relationship with Abraxas is a **_shitshow_**.’’

‘’Reckon, though, it’d be incredibly entertaining if it were a book.’’

Her mentor snorted, horrified at the thought of someone painstakingly writing about all of these events.

* * *

Like a conductor, Abraxas moved his hands gently through the air. He had Leach trapped and he was in no rush to get to the bottom of this. There was a certain elegance in the way he conducted his magic to attack Leach, to enter through his nostrils and his mouth until it corrupted his brain and had his eyes glow from those boring muggle, deviant eyes. They shined with Abraxas’ magic, wild and untameable and sick.

’’I see now,’’ he sniffed, ’’that you do not want to cooperate, Nobby Leach. That is fine.’’ There was nothing fine here, but Abraxas, while elegant, had no patience for these sorts of things. ’’I shall save the whole world from extinction. I shall help everyone see what evil has entered our midst. If you will not step down willingly, after I have given you ample chance to do so.’’

* * *

’’EXCUSE ME?!’’

’’Having you here to react to all for this does help me not to break down, I will admit.’’

’’WHAT IS THIS MADMAN TALKING ABOUT? HE NEVER GOT PROSECUTED FOR THIS? DID HE BLAME YOU? HE _FUCKING_ **_BLAMED_** **_YOU_**!’’

Some people found that yelling when helpless to stop something was a good enough way to cope with that something being committed. Hermione was one such person. Her hair was fiendfyre red and scorching to be nearby. Like Medusa’s snakes, her locks rose and whipped at their surroundings.

When she turned to look at her mentor she saw that there were currant sparks surrounding his body, flickering and bouncing off of his skin. He held onto himself, crossing his arms and holding his arms with his palms, embedding his nails into his clothes, and watching in horror as Abraxas continued to speak.

* * *

  
’’You only listen to your fake god,’’ And there was such ignorance in Abraxas’ words, coupled with hatred for the unknown, that all made an amalgam of suffering, ’’so now listen to him.’’ And he cast a spell. He cast a spell that had Hermione’s knees grow weak. Her breathing shallowed out, and her expression turned painful. She remembered hearing about this spell in Montenegro. Slowly she turned to her mentor and remembered being appalled at it, wondering how it could have ever been something legal and her promise to make it illegal and abhorred grew stronger. ’’Now **_I_** am your god. Will you finally ’’

Abraxas laughed, swinging from one foot to the other, readjusting his weight and his centre. He didn’t even use a wand when he cast this spell, electing only to speak the incantation. After, seeing that it took hold of Leach fully, he said, proudly, unable to stop himself from basking in his triumph and joy. He clapped his hands together and finally said: ’’Bow to your god, Nobby Leach.’’

Nobby Leach moved down on his knees in front of Abraxas, looking at him with reverence and awe. Abraxas relished in it. He relished in it, especially, when he said: ’’Do you want to _please_ your god?’’

He nodded, eager to do as commanded. ’’Of course! Anything!’’

Abraxas’ expression, then, wasn’t any Hermione had ever seen. She was sure of it. A part of her almost wanted to say that these two were different people, but that would be cruel to Nobby Leach and Mandy Leach. This was the same person. This was the man that tortured and abused Nobby Leach in his last moments, twisting his perception of reality and forcing his last moments to be full of helplessness and confusion. She cried when Abraxas cupped Nobby Leach’s face in his hands and said, manic now with glee and euphoria: ’’What an obedient little mudblood you’ve become when properly trained! Oh the things I could have done to you, the things I would have done to you had you only been this agreeable form the start. Your kind is not meant to prosper. Your kind is not meant to sit at the table like adults, like people. You are _animals_ , at best. With your little religions and your little changes and your little voices and – we’ve heard you – loud and clear – AND WE DO NOT WANT TO HEAR YOU. NOT WHEN YOU WANT TO CHANGE EVERYTHING THAT MAKES US THE PEOPLE, THE CULTURE, THE WORLD WE ARE!’’

Abraxas grabbed Nobby Leach by the throat then and pushed his strength onto him, watching as Nobby didn’t do anything to defend himself. He yielded to the will of Abraxas, of his spell made god. But then, the anger melted away from Abraxas’ face; for a brief moment he was scared. The fear transformed then. Into something _dark_.

’’No, a god does not bloody his own hands. And now, now I am a god. I am _your_ god! I am the purest god you have ever seen, the most powerful to ever look down on you. Walburga may lay claim to being the purest witch with a family born from incessant incestuous deeds, but I am born of fairies. I am born of the _first magic. No one will ever be on my level. No one will ever wield magic how I do. I am a god among men and Nobby Leach, as your god, I command you to take your wand._ ’’

Nobby Leach took his wand.

’’I want you to place the tip of it to your throat. Will you do that for me?’’

’’Anything.’’ Nobby Leach gasped out as he did as bid. ’’What next?’’

’’Next? Next,’’ Abraxas was shaking at the mere thought of what was to come. ’’Next you are going to do something for me. You are going to make a world a better place. You want that, don’t you? Your whole speeches are all about changing the world and making it a better place?’’ He nodded. ’’Well, I found a way that you can do that for me, and you will do it, won’t you, Leach? You’ll please your god? You pray to your god and he does not answer, but I answered your call. And how you called for me. How you called and demeaned everything that I stood for. I had to act. I had to lead you to enlightenment, Nobby Leach.’’

’’My lord?’’

’’Clear and concise now, Leach. You’ve got to mean it and I know you’ll mean it. You want to make your god happy? You want to be a good little worshipper and go up to Heaven – is that right?’’ Abraxas moved his hands as if immersed in the most lovely melody, ’’Say it with me now: _Avada Kedavra_.’’

Nobby Leach didn’t close his eyes. He looked on reverently at Abraxas Malfoy, basking in his presence and looking upon him as if the sun itself had decided to warm him in a world of ice, as if rain fell upon him in a drought. He smiled and pressed his own wand harder against his throat. **’’Avada Kedavra.’’**

The room was washed in green light. It had never resembled finality more than in that moment. When Nobby Leach’s body fell, lifeless, the world changed.

‘’Abraxas,’’ a voice said, riddled with disbelief, ‘’Abraxas, what have you done?’’

Abraxas turned to Voldemort and laughed, his voice going up high like a peacock’s. ‘’I’ve saved the world, Tom!’’ He pushed past Nobby Leach’s body, not registering the way Voldemort’s eyes glued to his form, the way Voldemort couldn’t move from the door frame: ‘’Do you think I shall be awarded the Order of Merlin, First Class?’’ Abraxas readjusted his robe, as if preparing for the honour right away. ‘’I think they ought to for the remarkable deed I have done, isn’t that right, Tom?’’

Voldemort could say nothing. When he heard a shout that sounded distinctly like it had come from an auror that would forever carry Nobby Leach’s death on his shoulders, he hastily grabbed Abraxas’ hand in his and twisted to disapparate them both to safety.

* * *

‘’See.’’ Tom Riddle turned to Hermione, his voice a mess if he disallowed it to show on his face. ‘’I did not kill Nobby Leach. Your history books lie, Hermione.’’

‘’I’m so sorry.’’ Hermione only had to say this on repeat. She was drowning in tears. And anger. And couldn’t quite come to terms with what had transpired. And then she was forlorn. No, yes, she seemed to be quite proficient and efficient in her five stages of grief. Truly, a queen of time management. ‘’You loved him.’’

‘’I did, yes.’’

Hermione remembered their flight together, their dance in a winter night, and choked on her tears loudly. She surged to hug him again. And he hugged her back. But then he had kind of adjust his position because he was going to eat Hermione’s wild hair otherwise and that really wasn’t on his agenda.

‘’Tell me it can’t get any worse than this. I don’t think I can handle more of this.’’

A door materialized at that exact moment. Were there no subtlety at all, the door might as well have had a note on it that said: GO HERE FOR WORSE THINGS TO COME. Luckily, because this mind was a reputable place that allowed subtlety and ambiance to shine through – it didn’t have that sign. What it did have, however, was a woman’s muffled scream coming through it. To Hermione, who was deciding that coming back to Montenegro to be a part of this Voldemort mission wasn’t worth all of this anguish, the woman’s scream didn’t ring any bells.

To Tom Riddle on the other hand, the woman was someone he knew very well.

Hermione broke off the hug and made for the door. ‘’We should? Go?’’

‘’I’d rather not.’’

Hermione blinked. ‘’Okay?’’

Then Nobby Leach’s corpse reanimated in form of the Darkness. ‘’Yes, please, do keep me company. I have a nice plot of mind to bury you in.’’

Hermione screamed. Tom Riddle screamed. There was, sadly, no ice cream.

They ran through the door.

The Darkness followed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, we're finished with these. THANKF UCK OTHERWISE I'D HAVE SHOT MYSELF IN THE FUCKING KNEECAP 
> 
> if y'all thought this was fucked, wait until you see what I've got in store for you in the next chapter :D
> 
> Hopefully only 2 left in the fucked arc. UNLESS THEY GROW AND I HAVE TO SPLIT THEM 
> 
> *lovingly recalls when i planned retired prometheus to be like 50 000 words AT MOST*
> 
> Looks in horror at Nobby Leach chapter if it weren't split being 30 605 words... beating out Surprise Bitch AND Death in December as the longest chapter of Retired Prometheus.


	57. Dolly Parton's Jolene, but instead of Jolene it's Eileen

Mages that had potential and didn’t fear delving deep into the roots of said magic could accomplish the impossible. They could grasp the unattainable if they pushed themselves hard enough. Some said that these mages could not be human. They had to have some fairy blood in them. This was very limiting and invalidating, actually, because people could and had accomplished wondrous things on their own merit, leaning on their very own magic instead of some belief that everything they had done had been because of some higher power that made them do it.

But, the fairy comparison did hold true. Folkloric fear that twisted people’s perception of reality and made them think that only the gods and deities of the realm could show such power. It wasn’t meant to be limiting, it was meant to be an explanation for the unexplainable at the time.

Fairies were said to be the creators of magic and that those of fairy blood could seize unimaginable power, but it was also said that those with ambition and cleverness could take a hold of magic and wield it better than anyone. These were the mages everyone feared, as they were rare and remarkable.

People, and this was said about farmers and those that lived on the land, those that lived off of the land, they believed that fairies needed more respect than any creature. That a vampire was a pest how a fox was when it got near a chicken coop. But a fairy wronged was the drought, a fairy wronged was a flood, a fairy wronged was a fire that scorched, a fairy wronged was worse than the unstoppable. 

Fairies controlled the elements. Malfoys, for example, believed that a storm was an expression of rage. That it was foreboding and a moment of reckoning between two fairies. The Blacks were more self-centred than this, because they believed that a storm was an indication of the Gods speaking to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, imparting lost knowledge to them and teaching them the forgotten arts. The Weasleys thought that a storm was a great battle of magic and will. The Notts did not think very much of storms, but they had a vast respect for it. 

Once upon a time Salazar Slytherin, too, would have had an opinion on storms and the fantastical. He would gaze upon the lightning scattering across the sky, giving it light in its unmistakable darkness. He would, then, listen to the thunder rapping all across the ears of mage and muggle kind. Wind would pick up, too, and begin to frighten those without a roof and board. 

Nobody knew what Salazar Slytherin thought of storms. He never thought to write down what he thought they represented before muggles had come into his home in the dead of night, only the scream of wind and lightning as companionship, carrying his children’s tongues as trophies. 

Nobody knew how Salazar Slytherin reacted to seeing such a painful reminder of hatred of parselmouths, of the pogroms his kind had been subjected, the unfair laws made by magic and muggle kind alike. To the former they were dark creatures while to the latter they were satanic beasts, serpent speakers, and devil worshippers. 

Nobody knew what Salazar Slytherin thought of storms before one of the muggles aimed fair and struck with precision, killing him and leaving the only remnant of his consciousness in the portrait hanging in Hogwarts. 

It was a shame that nobody knew what Salazar Slytherin thought of storms. If he believed in fairies, or if he believed in the gods, or if he believed in the fairy-chosen. The Dementor speakers as people had called them a long, long time ago. 

But, Helga Hufflepuff (and she was a wonderful dear that agreed with Salazar on a lot of things, most notable of which was to put their bloody common rooms in the basement because they didn’t want to maim their children on those moving staircases like those nutcases in red and blue), oh Helga Hufflepuff had an idea about what a storm as big as the one right above Spinner’s End represented. 

She had said that she did not believe in fairies. She did not believe in it being the gods. She did not believe in it being creatures or muggles. Her everlasting smile, in the portrait that she had at Hogwarts, would fall. And her eyes would soften in understanding. Her lips would move, and the words would fall out of her mouth with such pity and sadness: ’’It is grief. When your grief cannot be contained to your own body and magic, it has to transcend. And it goes to the sky, because, really, going to the ground is never what grief does. Grief never dies. It lingers in the air around you until you cannot move, cannot breathe, and cannot think. But sometimes, the grief  _ yells _ . And that is thunder. Sometimes the grief is so loud that it breaks apart the sky. And that is lightning. Sometimes the grief is so desperate that it sends a wave of itself through the world. And that is the wind. But, the worst of all of this remains hidden in the body and magic of the one grieving.’’ 

A tree next to a house that belongs to a chemist and a potioneer got hit by lightning. The ends splintered off in all directions. The leaves burned off in a wave of explosion. And from it emerged a man in a robe. Rain fell down on him, soaking him wet, but with a wave of his hand he dried his black robe. 

It was night and darkness followed him with each step he took, twirling around his footsteps how a cat might twirl around a person’s leg right before feeding. This man adjusted his robe and approached the house. A dance of red flickered over him, his eyes, his skin, his heart. The raw decadence of his soul shouted through him. 

He saw no one except for him and the front door. Nobody was around, too, to make matters easier. Perhaps if there was someone to bear the brunt of his first wave of anger, this night might have gone differently. But, he remembered a man with platinum hair and a shaky demeanour admit to him, confess as if confessing a most delicious titbit of gossip, as if naming the one that had introduced him to salvation, that he had gotten cocaine from the potioneer who lived in the house in front of him. 

With ingenious and marvellous glee he exclaimed: ’’It was Eileen Prince that helped me see that I could save the world! I did everyone a favour, mon chou! Nobby Leach would have ruined us, the mudblood deserved to die!’’ 

The man, sometimes known as mon chou, rarely known as Tom Riddle, now birthed fully into the persona of Lord Voldemort moved like a figure draped in shadow and darkness. He stood underneath the front porch roof and slithered towards the window. Slowly he placed his hands to his face to properly peer into the room, but he could not see anyone. He could only sense, however, that reason had left him. 

For Nobby Leach, he told himself. For Nobby Leach, he repeated under his breath. There was nothing he would not do for the man and the world he had wanted to make. 

Days had passed since the murder of Nobby Leach. Arcturus Black announced to the world that this only proved the mental instability of Mr. Leach. He did not call him Minister in his address. No, what he did say, multiple times during the same speech, was the word:  **_suicide_ ** .

A  **_great_ ** tragedy. Such an  **_unfortunate_ ** occurrence.  **_Nobody_ ** could have foreseen it.

Lord Voldemort felt a scream rip through his insides, cutting his mind to ribbons yet again at the sight of Nobby’s body on the floor of his own Minister office. His features had been kind and merry, as if he had done someone a great labour of love. He had not eaten in days, nor slept, else Voldemort was certain he would have awoken in cold sweat, or otherwise thrown up his meals.

When he finally mustered enough strength and willpower to come up to the front door, he laid his hand across the door, and whispered, maily to himself, but also welcoming any entity that had deigned to watch him: ‘’You are doing the right thing.’’ The right thing, for some, needn’t necessarily be good or healthy by any means. The right thing was so subjective, in fact, that someone might even believe that what they thought to be the right thing was their ONLY thing left to do. 

Unbeknownst to Voldemort and TOm Riddle and Hermione Granger and the Darkness, Death had come to watch Voldemort then, when he had come to attack the Snape family. She had fluttered her skeletal wings and caused his breath to materialize in front of him, how it might during the coldest of colds. Her teeth chattered as she spoke to him, telling him that one day, and a day that she swore would come very soon, she would kill Lord Voldemort. That she would make sure that Tom Marvolo Riddle got his just desserts for his actions towards her and her domain. Just as quickly as she manifested this promise into the world, so quickly she decided to go where she was needed more. A grecian did look delectable as he stubbed his toe against petrified men and women, after all. But, this wasn’t about Death and Alexio’s epic love story, the author really hadn’t the time to tackle that. This story was about an American expat named Montgomery Goldsmith who just so happened to, also, be a terrorist named Lord Voldemort. 

Lord Voldemort knocked and his knocks were timed with thunder and lightning. He was an arcane presence, one that some might even have mistaken for fae. But no, even Lord Voldemort was human, no matter how much he thought himself above such a thing. 

After his knocking ended, so did the thunder and lightning. The rain continued to fall, so did the clouds continue to form and cluster together as if frozen men and women huddled for warmth after dipping in a deathly cold lake. 

Finally, against her better judgement: Eileen Snape opened the door and welcomed death and death’s chosen target. 

She didn’t scream, but she would. Oh she  **_would_ ** scream. 

Lord Voldemort lifted his yew wand of legend (not yet, not yet, but soon - soon, only a few years later would this wand become the most feared wand in Magical Britain) and enveloped Eileen in shadow. 

* * *

  
Darkness called Tom Riddle and Hermione, too. It whispered with a beautiful tonality. A lulling, comforting tonality that was just as fake was that belief that artists had to suffer for their art and that being mentally ill warranted masterpieces and magnum opuses. ‘’Are you ready to see what lies ahead? This is your only warning. If you cannot stomach it, turn back now and I shall be merciful and forgiving.’’

Hermione struggled against one of the tendrils coiling around her throat. The Darkness had followed them and it was tenfold more dangerously set on keeping them away from the exit. Taking them through these memories had to be a strategic plan. Hermione batted one of the damned things away with a hand covered in fiendfyre, but the tendril turned to liquid and coated her hand, pulling her down, down, down. 

Tom Riddle, on the other hand, was too busy going up against the Darkness itself. They fought like, well, the same person. Mostly because they were the same person. Or at least, a part of the same brain. 

The Darkness hissed, now, in parseltongue:  _ ‘’I am giving you an out. Allow me to use this body as I see fit, take a step back. Burying you and destroying you wholly was a mistake. I see this now! I do, I do! We can come to an accord before you ruin yourself completely! I care about you, I do, I do, I do!’’  _

Tom Riddle blocked an uppercut. He tried to trip the Darkness, but its tendrils swooped, sharpened to blades, to attack him. He didn’t attempt to do the same as Hermione had with fiendfyre. Instead he summoned the cruciatus to his hands, how he had as a young and frightened child with so much violence in his heart and in his mind and he grabbed at the blades. 

* * *

  
It was frightening with which precision and ease Lord Voldemort cast fiendfyre. The snake manifested easily and quickly hurried through the air, burning anything that might be near it to devour. Its goal was the upstairs potion laboratory. And when it met its target, a rapid and thunderous explosion resonated throughout the air itself. 

Eileen had sent Tobias to fetch her son, who was sleeping upstairs before this mess had happened. She drowned in tears and clawed at her throat, screaming harder and harder. When she attempted to sprint, thinking that her family was in danger, that her family was dying right above her head. ‘’NO!’’ Her veins jumped on her throat, pulled taught with the screaming. She broke the binds that had been cast on her by Voldemort - and this was Voldemort, she had faintly heard Abraxas tell him the name of Tom Marvolo Riddle. 

And she tried to go up the stairs and see to her son, her form overcome with that mother’s instinct Voldemort had only ever  _ heard  _ things about.  **_‘’SEVERUS_ ** !  **_TOBY_ ** !’’

Voldemort cast a numbing spell, it managed to hit her spine. And she collapsed like a ragdoll over them, hitting her chin against the bottom of the stairs and splitting her lip bloody. 

His voice was devastating as it penetrated through her fear and love and terror. ‘’And suddenly she realised what it is like to lose family. Suddenly,’’ his voice hissed, nearly lapsing into parseltongue as the monster of her wildest nightmares continued to speak, ‘’she realised what it is like to lose the one she  **_loves_ ** .’’ 

Eileen couldn’t move. She couldn’t move. Her body weighed infinitely more than she expected. Her mind whirled like a whirlwind. Like a maelstrom that thundered and sunk any unsuspecting through like a ship lost at sea, thrust at the mercy of nature and the arcane magics. In her eyes was realisation, but not the correct kind. Because Eileen was a different sort of person, the kind of person who didn’t know the mental arts, how Abraxas did, how Walburga did, how Tom Riddle even did. No, she was the kind of person that had to put together things through context and the information she was given. And the account Abraxas had given her was one where he and Tom Riddle were the most genial couple of all times and that they both loved each other very much. 

It had been, Eileen swore, one of the reasons why she was scared to pursue Abraxas. If, no - no - when Tom Riddle (not anymore, she could tell that this was a new player, a much more dangerous player than the one she knew from school) found out that Eileen had been putting the moves on his Abraxas, there would be reckoning. Orphan boys like Tom Riddle, like Lord Voldemort, clung onto the few things they had with their whole being. 

And there was only one reason why he had come to her here. This Eileen, in her misguided attempts to be Sherlock Holmes, and the fact that her position made it so she did not know things that only Tom Riddle and Mandy Leach knew - all accumulated to the fact that Eileen’s heart broke in a painful showing of grief for a man she thought had died and sent Voldemort on this path:  **_‘’Abraxas.’’_ **

* * *

Tom Riddle fell down and swiped his hand through the air to cut across the tendrils. They were relentless, forming from the sludge and goop of the discarded parts of his own corroded mind. The Darkness followed along, glancing only to Hermione and her horrified, terrified expression as the tendrils had maneuvered her to watch Lord Voldemort’s descent. Her mentor’s fall from what little decency he had had. 

_ ‘’Surrender and I won’t make Hermione watch what you know comes next. Do you think she will respect you after this? You care for her opinion. You love her, don’t you? She is a daughter to you. Your only family which you’ve allowed yourself after Nobby Leach. Don’t be cruel to her. Surrender, we shall make a deal, and the girl will still be on your side.’’  _

Tom Riddle looked briefly interested. Especially when he glanced over to Hermione. He attempted to speak to her, but there were tendrils that slapped across his mouth, leaving a bright welt across them. He screamed at it and attempted to fight his way through by attacking the Darkness head on. This whole metaphor for mental illness was really tough to fight without a system put into place, one meant to aid and support people struggling with such maniacal fiends. 

‘’I will  _ never  _ surrender. Not when you’re so desperate to throw me into this memory, our least proud moment, our lowest and most horrific act! My only goal now is to get Hermione out of here alive and PURGE you from my mind.’’ Tom Riddle shouted. ‘’If I must relive this then so I shall. If Hermione will choose never to speak to me, then it is her decision. But I will make sure it is one of many, many decisions she will be able to make!’’

* * *

Voldemort turned Eileen over. The position couldn’t be comfortable for her to be splayed over the stairs like this, staring up at him, her back against the stairs that were hot from the fire burning on the top floor of her home. Her home, the home she raised her son, and loved her husband. Her home, the one she had brought drugs into for profit. Her home, the one where Abraxas had gone to help out a friend, but stayed to get high on cocaine. Eileen’s tears spilled and spilled like rivulets over her craven face. ‘’Oh no. Merlin no. Morgana no, no no.’’ She tried to close her eyes, but even her eyelids weighed like the whole world she held above her. 

Voldemort’s eyes were red in this moment of grief. And how could they not be? Eileen berated herself for not listening to Toby, for enabling Abraxas, for leading him to his death and Voldemort’s subsequent fall. ‘’I’m so sorry! I am,’’ her voice hitched and her fingers moved, because she had  **_loved_ ** Abraxas. ‘’He’s dead and I’m so,  _ so  _ sorry.’’ She pictured him as he’d no doubt overdosed. It was a grizzly sight in her mind, and one that she replayed as her most horrible fault. Her son was dead, too. Her husband. And the man she loved. 

Whatever vengeance Voldemort had come to enact, she deserved it. 

They made eye contact. 

And Voldemort’s sneer deepened when he read her mind. His eyes sharpened with hate, a tool most people would describe as blunt. Voldemort, then, lunged after Eileen, pinning her hard against the stairs. Feeling slowly returned to her, the more she began to fight this spell, this incantation he had placed on her. It hurt. Everything hurt. Her soul, her heart, her mind, her body. Eileen wept and begged a man to know that she had never intended this. 

‘’I never wanted him to die! I never, I was  **_so_ ** careful! Whenever he came here, Tom, please - please believe me, Riddle, I never wanted him harmed. Not someone so bright and full of joy; never someone who loved so easily;’’ and how easy, oh how easy it was to speak well of the dead and forgive their every shortcoming, ‘’never someone like our dear Abraxas!’’

His hand shot for her throat and pushed hard down on it, the momentum causing Eileen’s head to hit against the stair harshly. Her whole world spun and she could only smell the chemicals burning through her home; and what she swore was charred flesh. A bitter, terrified, horrified laugh escaped her. An image of her charred son flashed in her mind and she cried like a young girl who had first heard of the charred bodies from the muggle bomb in Japan, desperately swearing that Grindelwald had to be right, had to know what was true and worth believing in if the muggles were capable of something so inhumane. And she cried with the same intensity now, in this moment, when she thought of her son and husband dead in a flash of chemical and magical might. 

‘’Eileen.’’ Voldemort hissed and she looked at him through the tears. He, even in his most chaotic, cut a handsome figure. Eileen couldn’t stop wailing. She tried to move her hands - and she could - oh she could - but he pinned them down underneath him. His wand, in his free hand, the one that wasn’t holding her down in her last moments - he cast a cutting (or slicing, or dicing - a potioneer really ought to be able to tell, but she was a tad preoccupied at the moment with trauma to fully differentiate) hex over her chest, cutting along with it not only her skin, but her nightgown. Blood smeared the fabric and Eileen cried out at the second and third and fourth cut that appeared over her thighs, her legs, and her stomach. 

‘’This is not about him,  **_pure blood._ ** ’’ Voldemort’s voice was barely above a whisper, and his breath was hot against her dizzy mind. There was so much blood. It was too hot. Eileen saw spots litter across her vision. ‘’Why do all of you think that everything revolves around you?’’ He squeezed her throat and she couldn’t breathe. ‘’Is it so hard for you to understand that there are matters beyond your blood? Even now, all alone as you are in your pain, you cling and worry about having snuffed out pure blood..’’

Eileen was terrified of having killed Abraxas with her actions. She was scared of the reaction of the Twenty-Eight, of the world she had once embraced and belonged to fully. Her eyes tracked Voldemort’s movement. He let go of her throat, but he pressed his wand to one of her wounds and twisted it, twisting the pain forth into something that caused her to scream. 

‘’Eileen, oh,  _ Eileen _ , how I find your existence meaningless. I don’t even think your pain does  **_anything_ ** for me.’’ 

What a dangerous revelation that was. Eileen stared at the man smearing her flesh with her privileged, pure, highly-praised blood which he detested far more than any of them were aware of. He looked her dead in the eye and promised her that by the end of this night, she was going to be begging him to kill her, but that he wouldn’t until he well and truly felt she had gotten her comeuppance. 

He had pinned Eileen underneath him and told her: ‘’This brings me no joy, Eileen. But you have forced my hand to make your last moments the worst of your life. I can see it in your eyes, that fear, I’m a legilimens or have you forgotten that?’’ 

Eileen couldn’t say anything, and she couldn’t walk, and she couldn’t bring herself to think of anything other than the horror happening to her. She could feel Voldemort running his wand across her legs, razing them like blades. He squeezed her legs and pumped the blood out of her in copious amounts, hissing something in his serpent tongue. He smeared his hand with her blood and lunged like lightning to smear her face with it. ‘’Does this feel as if it has protected you now? Does it feel like you get to do whatever the fuck you want without any reprecussions? Does it, Eileen? Tell me.’’ He hissed.  **_‘’Sssspeak.’’_ **

He lifted his wand to her face next and was about to slice it up, as well - when he felt two hands grab a hold of his shoulders and  **_pull_ ** . 

* * *

''I DO NOT CONSENT TO BEING HERE!'' 

''NEITHER DO I, HERMIONE, THERE ISN'T MUCH I CAN DO!''

''YOU NEED PSYCHIATRIC HELP!''

''I PROMISE TO GIVE IT A SHOT AFTER ALL OF THIS IS DONE!''

''PROMISE? PROMISES AREN'T GOOD ENOUGH, SIR!''

''WHAT THE BLOODY HELL DO YOU WANT ME TO DO? SWEAR AN UNBREAKABLE VOW?''

''YES!''

''That seems a tad brash.''

''THIS ALL YOU'VE DONE WITH THE SNAPES SEEMS A TAD BRASH, DON'T YOU THINK, SIR?''

Tom Riddle had no comeback. The Darkness kicked him in the shins hard then. Tom's life was really difficult. 

* * *

While Tobias wrangled Voldemort, Eileen took aim. She summoned her strength which seeped from the love she felt for her husband and son. And she didn’t need to think. No, there was only one way that her family would come out of this alive. Eileen’s cedar wand moved in a zig-zag, lightning motion through the air and, accompanied by harsh and unforgivable words, sent forth a bolt of green light cascading through the air towards Lord Voldemort. 

Eileen held onto the stair railing with her free hand. She hadn’t cast healing spells on her cuts and her hand would no doubt become scorched and burned, but she needed to see this. She had to make sure that her unforgivable act would hit its intended mark. 

Unfortunately, Eileen Snape was not a good marksman. Especially not one that expected the unexpected. Severus, always a bit too difficult of a child, opened the front door to see where his dad had disappeared to. The door was behind Voldemort and Tobias, who weren’t really fighting how one might imagine a chaotic and action-packed fight to appear as. It really just looked dangerous and incredibly desperate from both ends. 

Now, even that wasn’t the worst part of all of this. Those two desperate fighters moved out of the way of the killing curse, though that left it clear open to hit Severus. Eileen screamed her son’s name. The boy stood, dumbfounded as the spell rocketed for him. Tobias shouted in pain when Voldemort sent yet another contact-cruciatus curse on him, causing Tobias to finally let go of Voldemort. His red, monstrous eyes fell on Severus and in a knick of time he managed to fling his leg towards the boy, hit him square in the chest, knock him down, and then fling himself back into Tobias, hit his head against Toby’s, and then fall down disoriented. 

Eileen watched all of this go down in slow motion, as she held her breath, only letting it go when she saw that the killing curse missed her son and hit one of the front porch pillars holding her roof. She wouldn’t forget that Voldemort had done this, as confusing as it was for a man that had come to cause her nothing but pain. She wouldn’t forget that he’d saved her son. It meant that he wanted Eileen’s death only. 

* * *

The Darkness, that fink, was becoming more tired by the minute. Tom Riddle, somehow a lesser fink than most thought, was struggling. At this point he really had to admit that what he needed, most of all, was dire and immediate help from a loved one or a healthcare professional specialized in the brand of mess he was inadvertently stumbling around. 

Hermione, and, yes, she was in the picture, had this to say: ‘’AFTER THIS IS OVER, SIR, NEVER CONTACT ME AGAIN, PLEASE!’’

Which, to be honest, was well and truly valid. Didn’t mean it wasn’t heartbreaking to hear for one easily attached Tom Riddle, mentor extraordinaire and definitely bad at playing american. The Darkness used this moment of weakness to overcome him. It knocked him to the ground, maneuvering its tendrils of pure abyss and eldritch horror, angling them to they aimed true for Tom Riddle’s ashen face. 

‘’The student has become more emotionally self-aware, not that that is particularly hard.’’ The Darkness seeped, brimmed, flaunted its joy. It twisted the proverbial knife and the tendril that had lodged deep in Tom Riddle’s heart. ‘’You are far too gone to ever be loved. Dumbledore was right about you. Look, even someone as invested in your brain as Hermione is doesn’t find herself capable of tolerating your presence any longer.’’

Hermione, sadly, had not seen the outcome of her words, as she was still fighting the Darkness from making her watch Lord Voldemort’s lowest and darkest moment. 

* * *

Voldemort cast a petrificus totalus on Tobias when he knocked him off of him. He cursed the persistent muggle and told him that he would have first row seats to the show. There was no joy in that sentence, no joy in that horror he was going to inflict upon the Snape family.

Eileen held her wand and aimed it still at Voldemort. He looked at it, then at her, and then back it, giving her an acidic smile full of teeth. ‘’Are you going to fire off another killing curse at me, Eileen?’’

Severus had been numbed, much how Eileen had before, out on the wet and freezing front porch, away from battle. Eileen wished to run to him, to help him, to warm him, to keep her baby boy alive and well - but she froze at the sight of Voldemort speaking to her. The voice of ever-helpful Head Boy Tom Riddle filled her mind as she remembered him, as she remembered him being awarded for special services to the school. Realisation dawned in her eyes as she fully, fully embraced the fact that he had always been this man in front of her, finally having shown his colours to her. 

‘’I will if I must.’’ She said. 

‘’Do you dare?’’ Voldemort said and disapparated, only to reappear with Severus to shield himself with. ‘’Do you dare?’’

‘’Why save him?’’ Eileen whispered, her wand wavering, her resolve faltering, her fear doubling, ‘’Why save him if you are going to use him against me now?’’

‘’You assumed I was rational.’’ Voldemort barked out a laugh, his grief for a man that Eileen did not know showing in abundant clarity. 

Eileen had to concede that he wasn’t rational at all, no. That was on her. 

* * *

Hermione broke free of the tendrils, finally, when she realised that pretending to be obedient worked wonders on teachers. They let their guards down eventually. And what was the Darkness if not some twisted, horrific, painful variation of Voldemort’s subconscious? Or mental illness, but Hermione really wasn’t qualified to get into that whole mess. And anything that called itself Tom Riddle adjacent had the qualities of a professor. And Hermione… oh she was adept at pleasing and fooling professors. All overachievers were. 

When she did, she stopped watching what was happening around them all in the Snape household and body-slammed the Darkness. As one did. In order to protect her mentor and horrifying terrorist who just, also, happened to be decent to  _ her _ . This did not excuse his actions, nor would it ever come close to accepting them. But, what she could do, was get Tom Riddle out of this mess (herself alongside him, obviously) and then have him turn himself in and go to prison and think long and hard (alongside psychiatric help) how he had absolutely caused a great mess in magical britain. 

She pulled him from his pool of blood and flinched when his eyes zeroed in on her. Now that she was up close to him, he didn’t quite look how she knew him. Gone was the disguise of Montgomery Goldsmith, gone were the scales of a failed (or successful?) experiment that would make Mary Shelley proud. He had greys scattered across his messy and disoriented hair. 

‘’Oh.’’ Hermione said, only briefly. She remembered this man from the pensieve memories. This was the man everyone thought of when they said: You Know Who, the one that had died in 1981. ‘’Sir, we need to leave.’’

Tom Riddle only briefly nodded. He clung onto Hermione and told her that he did apologize terribly for the inconvenience his mind was causing her. 

Hermione cracked a smile: ‘’You could never have fooled anyone you were American, sir. That’s the most british thing I’ve ever heard.’’ 

He gave her only a fleeting, small smile, as he shattered her happiness: ‘’I do think you have to let the whole memory play out for us to go someplace else.’’ He wheezed, because the tendril had definitely pierced more than his heart, ‘’Take as consolation, at least, that they all lived happily ever after.’’

‘’Not really.’’ Hermione said. ‘’Severus died.’’ 

And Tom Riddle was much too wounded and tired to keep up these morally sound pretenses any longer: ‘’Fucker deserved it. I regret not killing him as a child.’’ 

‘’SIR!’’ 

‘’He did betray us.’’ The Darkness mused from the floor. Hermione roundhouse kicked it back down on the ground. 

Tom Riddle marvelled at the ease with which Hermione, a detached party, handled all of this. Well, it wasn’t personal to her. No wonder she was so capable. Oh god, he thought, this was why therapists actually worked, wasn’t it? 

‘’Nevertheless, you can’t kill a child!’’

‘’No children were killed in the making of this traumatic experience.’’ Tom Riddle sing-sang. 

* * *

Voldemort saw Severus clutching onto his small blanket, his eyes shot wide in horror. His form was frozen as he took in the sight of his mother being butchered underneath a strange man. No, Voldemort admitted this freely, he was no man anymore. He was a monster that had been unleashed and would never be reigned back in. 

Instead of Severus, for a brief moment, Voldemort saw young Tom Riddle, clinging onto his blanket and shaking like a leaf as Mrs. Cole had thrown him outside in the cold until he learned not to make a mess and not to disturb the other children.

‘’Please, I beg you, I beg you, don’t orphan him. Don’t orphan a child, surely you’ve seen what a life like that is like? Do you, truly, want someone else - someone innocent who had done nothing to you - to endure such a fate? Please, please,’’ Eileen grabbed a hold of his arm, wrapped her hands over it, and held him down, held his attention on her as much as she could. But his mouth hung open in a small, horrific ‘o’ as he stared at a shaky, wet, sickly Severus Snape. 

Eileen’s wounds would be the death of her, she conceded this fact already, but she would fight until her last dying breath to save her boy. Tobias was immobile both by the spell and the horror that strangled him into compliance.

Something must have registered in those words, or at least something which he had unearthed from another memory, buried deep inside of him, one he’d lifted from his own father’s mind right before his death. His mother had begged similarly, right before he’d cast them both out. Voldemort stared at Severus and the boy stared right back, deeper than any abyss could. There was nothing more honest than a child’s gaze. 

No, he could not kill Eileen in front of her child. It was a line that even he could not cross, not even in this state of distress and panic. Severus looked away for only a moment, to see his father. And Tobias was fighting the enchantment in earnest. Debris began to fall down from the top floor, that had been fully eaten through by the fiendfyre snake. Voldemort willed it away, pulling himself together and denying his emotions from leading him astray and into danger. This had all gotten out of control. He was shaking. He was crying, too, he could tell because something fell on Eileen’s face that wasn’t blood. 

Eileen gagged as Voldemort cupped her face in his hand and shouted, but it wasn’t truly a proper shout - it wasn’t loud by any means, it was just angry and full of inconsolable emotion: ‘’Do you want to live, Eileen?’’

‘’Yes.’’ Eileen said. ‘’I want all three of us to live. I want my family to live.’’

Voldemort shook his head. ‘’No, no,’’ He gagged when he remembered that his family was dead, that the only man he had ever dared call something so intimate and loving had died by hand of another man, this one dear in a twisted and roundabout way. ‘’Promise me something, Eileen. Live another day and obliviate your son of this night. Promise me, that when I leave tonight, you will never contact anyone in the magical world, that you will never brew another potion or cast a spell, promise me,’’ he stressed, ‘’that you will never enter the magical world; it is barred from you and your husband. If I find that you did not adhere to this promise, I will come back here, Eileeen, and I will kill your son, and I will kill your husband and I will make you watch - if only hopeful that one day you might understand what you’ve done to me. I,’’ and his voice hitched when an image of Nobby Leach appeared, smiling, in his mind, ‘’I  _ never  _ wanted this.’’ 

Eileen cried underneath him, her whole body shaking from exhaustion and fear and uncertainty.  **_‘’I promise.’’_ ** There was magic and power in a promise between two mages. Especially the kind that held the other’s life in their hands. Eileen would be a fool not to accept any terms set before her. She looked at her boy and hoped that she had the strength to obliviate him while the memory was fresh and still in the forefront of his mind. No child deserved to have such a memory in their mind, rattling about. 

‘’I never wanted to feel **_any of this._ ** ’’ Voldemort keened a cry and Eileen felt, more than anything, as if she stared into something deeply broken and terrifying in equal measure. Something that was not her place to fix or observe, but only survive until someone much more adept tackled it head on. 

‘’I’m sorry... I am.’’ Eileen said. She spoke in a calming tone she used when Severus had had a nightmare. It felt fitting that she speak in it during her worst nightmare. It grounded her. ‘’I am so sorry for your loss.’’

Oh and this was the first person to tell him this. Nobody knew that he mourned or loved Leach. Eileen didn’t know either, but she could piece together that someone had died. Someone that meant a great deal to Voldemort. And she did what any sensible person did in this moment: offered her condolences. 

And it broke him. A nerve-wracking, bone-shattering, blood-curdling sob escaped him then as he tried to clench his hands into fists and pull away from Eileen. He couldn’t look at the destruction he’d wrought, finding it repugnant, along with his own self. He couldn’t look at either of the Snapes, too, in fear of seeing something that would fully shatter him. 

So, he ran. He ran like a coward afraid of himself and what he could do if he was left unchecked. There was nobody that could help him, not after Leach had been killed ( _suicide_ , voices shouted in his head, mixing and intertwining), not after Mandy couldn’t look at him for protecting Abraxas ( _coward_ , her voice rang the loudest, _HEAD BOY_ , her voice rang the cruellest), and especially not after Abraxas broke down sobbing, clinging onto him and begging him not to leave him, drowning in his own tears and post-high anguish, ( _I love you, Tom,_ his voice was the most heart-breaking to hear because it was true and the truth always frightened Lord Voldemort) 

He had to run. There was no coming back from this, not a million years. He needed to remove himself from the world which had hurt him tenfold harder than he had ever thought. Furthermore, however, he needed to remove himself before he hurt it thrice as hard. Before the world turned into chaos and ruin underneath his fingertips. 

It was right what Mrs. Cole had told him. Everything he touched did turn to ruin. He made things infinitely worse. He had made Nobby Leach die. What an easier life it would have been had he not become Minister? He had made Mandy’s scar happen to her, forever reminding her that this world was not going to love and cherish them. His head was spinning from how shallowly he breathed. His blood pumped in his ears and stopped him from hearing anything. Rain continued to fall down on him, but he could not feel it. He could not feel anything anymore and this was what he was meant to become since the first moment Mrs. Cole had told him he was  **_evil_ ** . 

What an apt word. A word he had promised Leach not to believe in. That he was not evil and could never be such a word. How naïve and hopeful his dear Leach was. 

Voldemort turned to look at the house one last time before tumbling towards the splintered, dead tree. He felt dead, too. Like his heart was going to stop any moment. Like he was going to fall unconscious from a dream and never awaken. 

He wondered, for a very brief moment, if someone would wait for him there. His mother? His father? His grandparents? Anyone to greet him and tell him that he was just as bad as they were. That it was okay to feel like this – because he truly felt like nothing he did could right this wrong twisting his chest and insides into ribbons. 

Where could he even go? 

Malfoy Manor? No, he couldn’t bear to look at Abraxas. He had protected him from Mandy and Cohen and everyone. Why had he protected him? Because he loved him? Voldemort let out a shaky, wounded, startled cry. He bit his fist tightly and tried to move away from the premises before someone came to investigate what had happened. 

Leach’s residence? No. No he could never go back there again. He didn’t deserve to be in Nobby Leach’s home, not after all of this. Not after letting Abraxas Malfoy get to this point. He should have asked him where he’d gotten it, should have pretended to want some for himself, should have tracked Eileen Snape down years ago and stopped her from pining like a love-sick puppy after Abraxas. Who was not so much love-sick as he was simply sick. 

His followers’ home? No. He would be easily found. And to make matters worse he didn’t trust any of them with such an honour. What honour? A laugh tore through him. At the fact that he was still grandstanding enough to believe himself to be some god, some creature worth respecting? No, he was a monster and there was no coming back from this. This was his lowest point. He bit into his hand so hard that blood – not pure blood how Eileen’s was – oh no – this was blood that could enter only half way through to the world. He stared at his blood and as his hand kept twitching because he may have bit through some nerve. It mixed with rainfall and he couldn’t feel any pain. 

There was no world for him to return to. All of his will to make the world a better place fell when Nobby Leach’s body fell. All of his desire for power melted away when he saw what power had created while it was in his hands. He did not want to rule the world anymore. Not after this. Not after the world he would rule had done this to him. Nobody had made him feel this anguish before. Not when he’d killed, not when he’d split his soul, and certainly not in Albania when his master had made him do terrible, dark things in order to hone his craft. 

No, this anguish was unrivalled. It made his heart stop. It made him scream through the thunder and the blaring lightning shining down on him from the troubled overcast sky. 

There was no place left for him in this world. 

One last lightning bolt dashed through the sky and with that, Lord Voldemort knew what he had to do. He disapparated with a resounding crack and marked the storm above Spinner’s End over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok yknow what, i dont know when rp is ending  
> i'm here, i'm queer, and i've split the last chapter of the fucked arc into multiple pieces collect them all and earn a reward!!! because i've lost my mind and im making meta tiktoks abt rp now to compenaste for the fact that im never gonna finish this fic that it's gotten to the point it will grow into something eldritch and arcane, as the longest abraxas/tom story on this site and ffnet to boot. 
> 
> hope y'all are well and taking care of yourselves  
> leave a comment if you want to see this monster completed  
> ignore if you want walburga black to rail you


	58. Depression Swamp I

Sometimes people liked to say a very jinx-y phrase:  _ Well, at least things can’t get any worse. _

This was very unfortunate because Hermione Granger had said such phrase amidst the ill brain of one Tom Marvolo Riddle, who, upon hearing this, had this to say: ‘’You’ve doomed us.’’

* * *

Walburga fell down and hit her head against the cobblestone street of Diagon Alley. Blood spilled and pooled underneath her. She blinked, oddly, trying for some semblance of control. Her fingers felt crushed underneath her body and she had to admit that, perhaps, having such a good cook like Kreacher wasn’t paying off for her. Her head spun like a ferris wheel out of control and she heard cacophony, muffled albeit because her head was bleeding and her brain was telling her that something was unimaginably wrong. A part of her, this part of her that was weak, told her to sleep and that everything would be fine. Walburga said ’fuck you’ to this part of herself and tried to lift herself up.

* * *

Hermione asked her wheezy and sleepy and wounded mentor why he had memories from Walburga’s point of view. He just shrugged and said that he had scoured her mind once in the 1960s and that it hadn’t been a kind experience.

’’I pushed most of it down, but it seems that all of what I’ve pushed down has decided to rear its head up.’’

’’Rotten luck, that.’’

Tom snorted at such an understatement. ‘’You’ve really no clue, child.’’ He was still coming to terms with the fact that Walburga Black had just resurrected herself, as if it wasn’t anything difficult or remotely impossible. But, furthermore, Tom Riddle absolutely hated the fact that something he feared with all of his being (death) was nothing more than a minor inconvenience for the woman. That really irked him on a fundamental level.

* * *

Another blast of light rocketed past Walburga Black, only missing her by a fraction of a hair. Walburga blinked again, trying to fight off the subtle pain that told her that, oh, she had fucked up supremely by coming to Diagon Alley during her father-in-law’s speech for support. She had, in fact, made a grave error in being front and centre as her father-in-law went on to mention Nobby Leach’s suicide for the umpteenth time.

Her being hit and bleeding was definitely not an occurrence that had just happened out of nowhere. It was, by all accounts, a long time coming. Walburga pushed herself to her wobbly feet and made herself walk like a baby deer. Because it was winter time, she slipped on the ice and rued the day anyone had ever not bothered to cast a warming charm on these stones – it was a safety hazard, Merlin and Morgana! A safety hazard! What if a pregnant woman slipped? Or a child? Walburga wasn’t pregnant anymore, but had two hellions instead who would push each other to fall. Sirius, and she could see this, was growing up to be her exact replica. It scared her. That eternal fire in his heart. Hopefully his tongue would be curbed by her teachings.

First, however, she would need to get up properly and apparate out of this madness. Her eyes glazed over the sight in front of her. Aurors took out their wands and told the protesters to calm down and stop being nuisances, but, as Walburga knew deep down inside, there was no worth talking to filthy instigators of violence like Nobby’s bunch was.

During Arcturus’ speech Walburga had seen Mandy Leach – Sullivan, as they had started to calling her because she hadn’t been married by magical means, only in muggle law. It was both meant as an insult to her and her love for her mudblood husband, and it was, also, meant to be used as a way to lessen the guilt from the Nobby Leach supporters when they, ultimately, turned their back on her.

There were rumours that they’d stripped Mandy Sullivan of her healer’s licence. For what reasons, Walburga didn’t know. As a matter of fact, she wasn’t even certain that these rumours were true, at all.

What she was certain of was that Mage Britain was not safe anymore. And what a terrifying revelation that was – albeit an obvious one if only one had a tiny bit of foresight. What could happen to people after a group of select people took away the one person that had fought for their rights as adamantly as he’d fought for his own? What happened to the world after said select few made this so-called messiah of theirs into an unstable and definitely unfit to lead individual, a charlatan that everyone was a fool for believing in?

Nothing good. That was the short answer.

Arcturus had been taken away by his security detail after having been shot at. Walburga had been lost in the fanfare of spell fire that erupted and was now coming to terms that she couldn’t get out of the way of this. That she was a target for a group of very wronged individuals, which was a funny way of saying that she’d come to realise, in her blunder, that the common folk far outnumbered the ones a part of an oligarchy. And what was the Twenty-Eight if not an oligarchy which wished to seize all power for itself?

Not to mention that Walburga had felt so alone during this time, even with her family surrounding her and being just as outraged by the current political and societal climate of their world as she was. Thoros was off hiding in Iceland with his wife, Elektra. Abraxas was off in a bloody, muggle rehabilitation facility because – and this had irked Walburga the most – mages hadn’t thought that cocaine was a very big problem. And how could they when some of them still put the damned thing in cough syrup! Because they were stuck in the 19th century by standards and laws and it was obscene! Walburga was going to cut someone’s head off.

Eileen was pretending to be beyond the magical world and wouldn’t answer a single owl she’d sent. And Walburga had sent a few dozen owls because she was going to lose her mind one of these days as this world was going insane.

The crème de la crème, however, manifested itself in the fact that Tom Riddle had just up and disappeared! The fucker left her to deal with Abraxas! The fiend! Walburga, were she capable of standing up for longer than a few seconds at a time, would swear vengeance and rid the world of him. How dare he spend time away from this madness! How dare he live it up in Yugoslavia or Albania or wherever else he’d gone this time around.

Oh, Walburga mocked feebly, look at me – I am Tom Riddle, I am a little twat with no upbringing. Everything is going smoothly in my life and I have nothing that can match up to the problems of Walburga Black.

Then Walburga liked to imagine that just as much as she thought and obsessed over Tom Riddle he did the same about her because if she wasn’t the centre of attention for someone, then that someone was definitely deranged in some shape or form.

For a brief moment Walburga noticed the world around her – really, truly noticed it and had to concede that it was pushed into anarchy.

When another, last spell hit her, Walburga almost completely lost consciousness. The only reason why she didn’t think she had been rendered immobile was because a series of thoughts and pictures flickered through her mind so rapidly that it caused her head to pop open and her mouth to tear apart for a scream to rip through her.

She saw a wide variety of things. There was an embarrassing amount of Tom Riddle in her thoughts. This filthy arriviste was going to ruin her.

Walburga clawed at her head, embedded nails to her skull, and bled for all of her unjustly actions. Through her eyes flickered a series of snapshots, images, and memories that combusted her head into dire, unseemly flames. Her neuron passageways were aflame and she struggled not only to stand, but to think – to do the most human and ingrained and nonchalant action of any member of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.

She saw Orion smiling at her as he held Sirius post birth, it was truly the happiest she’d ever seen her love. Walburga hiccupped and shook as she stumbled through the thoughts, her head threatening to burst like an overflowing balloon that had taken up a lot more than it could physically handle.

Sirius and Regulus giving her one of their little gifts – crafty, creative little finks that they were (they got that from their painter of a father, not her – never her who destroyed everything she touched and everything that she brought into the world (this horrible, hideous, warren, and monstrous world)). They wrote mummy on the label and said that it was her that they drew. Walburga remembered that she had conjured a frame for the drawing, telling them that it was incredible.

Oh gods, oh gods – her children – her children were in this world – in this world that Abraxas had ruined.

Abraxas then entered her mind. Walburga whimpered, feeling an ice creep into her very mind at the sight of him. He always had that effect on people, unnatural and inhuman as he was. Walburga had thought herself capable of taming him, of making him her own while they were betrothed, but he had become something beyond anyone’s comprehension steadily, gradually. Walburga remembered the last time she’d seen Abraxas. It was a day after he’d killed Nobby Leach – and they knew this – she and Elektra and Thoros and Tom Riddle (who had not even tried to hide his revulsion and horror, which Walburga had thought beyond hypocritical given his little accident with Myrtle Warren, but Walburga, also, needed to only remember what had transpired with the Wizengamot to fully understand what it was that the author wanted to convey).

’’I’m fine!’’ Abraxas had not been fine. Walburga thought of her children who were going to be growing up and living through this unstable and transitional period. As much as she hated Nobby Leach – and she hated him from the bottom of her heart to the top of her hellfire-spitting tongue – she hated war and instability more. Her family was indestructible, no matter who was in charge of the bloody Ministry.

But this... her family wasn’t indestructible during protests and painful spellfire and rowdy aurors and the world self-destructing around her. No, her family wasn’t safe at all.

And even though Walburga would like her last moments to be about thinking back to fond memories with her family, it kept straying back to fucking Abraxas Malfoy and what a high, addicted fink he had been that day.

Thoros was the one that apprehended him. Tom Riddle had only had his arms crossed as he stared at Abraxas begging him not to let them take him away (did he even understand that they were only trying to help him by getting him away from Eileen’s influence). Walburga had expected better from Eileen, really. 

But Abraxas had been so adamant, so pretty, also, in his distress. Walburga was losing her mind. She found men in distress absolutely ravishing. Ugh. It was most inconvenient, given how Tom Riddle and Abraxas Malfoy both were incredibly stressed and ripe for ruining.

They’d sent off one of Walburga’s longest and dearest friends to a muggle facility on the other side of the world in bloody Australia.

’’He has an aunt there.’’ Thoros said, a world of worry in his voice: ’’If anything is to happen she can intervene. Hopefully nothing will happen.’’

’’Sevin Malfoy is a disgraced witch.’’ Walburga had said snidely, but now she thought about what a kind thing it was to have at least some family nearby while going through such a traumatic experience. The farthest Abraxas had ever gone was France, sheltered scion of a pureblood famille that he was.

’’Disgraced as she may be, she is all that he has out there. And were we to take him to a facility somewhere nearby it would get out into the public. ’Abraham Mallory’ is safest so far away.’’ Thoros explained to her gently, trying to temper her temper. Walburga would not allow this to happen, so she yelled some more at poor, morose Thoros until his wife, Elektra, kindly guided the conversation back to where it was meant to go.

’’He needs help, but he needs to be away from the people who have made him go through with such abuse.’’

’’Abuse! He is mad, Lovegood!’’ It was instinctual to call Elektra Lovegood by her maiden name.

Thoros scoffed: ’’Lady Nott deserves to be addressed properly.’’

Elektra winked at her husband and took his hand in hers, letting him know that she was always going to be his wife, no matter the ignorance of impropriety of others. ’’I know this, my love. You know this, too. Do not let other people’s feelings and insecurities get to you.’’

Elektra Lovegood was wise for her age, wise for any age, really. Most accredited this to her being stolen by the fairies from the Seelie Court when she was a baby. If the fairies went out of their way to steal you away and raise you as their own servant child or most coveted treasure, then it had to be because you were someone of high worth.

’’Tom,’’ from the other room, Abraxas had been shouting,’’Tom, I love you! Come back, don’t let them do this – Tom!’’

Tom Riddle had been livid and it broke Abraxas. A lack of understanding danced in his eyes then. They had definitely hurt poor Abraxas. Tom turned towards Walburga and sneered at her: ’’Have you come here to  **_gloat_ ** , you vulture? Come to feast upon this carcass like you’ve always wished to?’’ 

Walburga had just opened her mouth to let loose another tirade when the memory shifted to something else. Something not recent at all.

A young Tom Riddle shifted in her vision. He was laughing with someone, but the moment he saw her his smile fell to be replaced by a grim line.

’’Wot?’’ He said.

Walburga, unlike her other compatriots from the Twenty-Eight, actually understood Tom Riddle because she was from London herself. Not Woolwich, of course, because that was just inane, but she was from the capital city and that meant that, on a level, she  _ got _ Riddle.

’’I just wanted to say hello.’’ Walburga said, feigning interest in whatever it was that someone like Tom Riddle might be up to. She hadn’t thought him an interesting individual at all in her youth, but in retrospect (and with a little more context than was previously given) she could see that he wasn’t someone to cross off easily.

’’Hello.’’ Tom Riddle said and turned away from her, his shoulders tense and his form irritated to see her. Unlike with everyone else whom he knew he could fool in varying degrees, it was with her that he showed his true animosity – perhaps, exactly because of the fact that she wouldn’t give in to his attempts, wouldn’t fall for his little plays of pretend.

’’You are aware, I hope,’’ Walburga said, her voice annoyed now, too, ’’that we are both in Slytherin, and we are both fifth years.’’ She glanced down at his prefect badge, which was pinned neatly to his robe as a way to both show off his newfound status and placate himself in private that his life wasn’t a trainwreck and that he was worth two knuts.

Realisation began to dawn in Riddle’s eyes. She continued, now enjoying his utter lack of decorum. ’’No.’’ He whispered, horrified.

Walburga unfurled her robe ever so slightly to show off a prefect badge, as well.

His voice rose:’’No!’’

Walburga grinned. If she were an evil sort of person she might have even danced a jig, or even pushed past her feelings of disgust for his blood, in favour of her utter delight at seeing him hot and bothered around her in order to kiss the delinquency out of him. And he was a delinquent. She’d seen the way he eyed everyone’s belongings, the way he took more than was enough food, the way he kept looking at Abraxas Malfoy like he was some sort of target to be robbed. Oh, Walburga saw everything.

’’ _ We’re _ prefects, Riddle.’’

’’God.’’ Tom Riddle used that word like a curse word.

Walburga only grinned harder. ’’God _ dess _ .’’ She happily corrected him.

The way he eyed her then, was full of hatred. She relished in it. She’d bathe herself in that expression all day long if she only could. It would replace all of her carefully curated lotions. It would warm her better than any cashmere scarf.

He turned away, quickly, hating, even more, how she obviously wouldn’t back down

Walburga hoped that whatever she felt towards Riddle would leave her be. It wasn’t like there was some more respectable version of Tom Riddle out there for her to fancy freely and work through her inane and dastardly and inconvenient feelings on.

Tom Riddle’s lips pulled back in a sneer as she said to her, leaving very little to the imagination: ’’Stay out of my way, Miss Black, and we will not have any problems.’’

Walburga hated the fact that this man was so handsome. She wanted to crush his face against hers and pit her tongue against his in a battle for dominance which – of course – the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black would win.

For now she only said – and what a horrible thought to realise that this was one of the last things on Walburga Black’s mind right before her own brain shut down – ’’Be professional, mudblood. It is the least you can do.’’

Just when Walburga had become resigned to her agony, her torture came to a halt when a thought, a voice pierced through her mind and told her, never so gently: ’’Walburga, this type of behaviour doesn’t look like the kind of way a Black would act. Pull yourself together.’’

This mellifluous and completely done and tired voice belonged to one Mandy Leach. Walburga’s eyes popped open and she realised that what had hit her head was a spell designed to incapacitate a legilimens. All Blacks were legilimens to a degree. It had been planned and it chilled her to her heart (yes, she had one; yes, everyone was surprised by this).

Mandy Leach grinned down at her and said, having healed her with her wand (which she kept tapping impatiently or she kept tapping it a certain number of times, Walburga truly didn’t pay attention to other people’s neurosis): ’’Were I to leave you in your mind for only a moment longer you would have become completely eaten alive by your thoughts. Overwhelmed, as well, I reckon, by the thoughts surrounding you.’’

Little known fact about Walburga Black was that she could be very empathetic, but that she had trained herself to believe that these thoughts didn’t mean anything to her because, otherwise, she’d get drowned by them. So, yes, if she seemed a tad cold and uncharacteristically high-and-mighty that was because she had chosen to be a righteous bitch that could most certainly and most easily understand people’s feelings but had just decided against doing so because it seemed like too much effort.

She blinked the daze out of her eyes and stared deep into Mandy Leach’s. They were haunted eyes. But the scar on her face seemed to be more of a prominent mark, a more permanent mark, as well.

’’You have beautiful eyes.’’ Walburga was dazed. Mandy knew this. She smiled down at her and told her that she had just saved her life. ’’Thank you.’’ Walburga blurted out. It had seemed appropriate. She wished to be more dangerous, she wished to be more her usual self – but she couldn’t. All she felt was drained. She hadn’t anyone to rely on aside from Orion, and he was too busy helping her raise their children. He was slowly pulling away from the Ministry, choosing to leave his own father stranded and pitted against the whole of magical Britain. It was all in order to save himself, and with him his children. Walburga, he’d told her, he didn’t believe she needed any saving.

But that was wrong. A mudblood that hated her guts, that had every reason to hate her and her whole family, had just saved her.

’’You owe me a life debt.’’ Mandy Leach shook Walburga awake fully. Emerging her from one nightmare and flinging her into another. ’’I aim to collect immediately.’’

Walburga didn’t know whether to count this as a blessing or not. ’’You are a healer. By law and oath you cannot garner any life debts from your patients.’’

’’You are a patient, I am certain. Not mine, however. Nor any of my colleagues.’’ Mandy Leach wasn’t a Ravenclaw but her husband was one and she no doubt had made herself accustomed to riddles and half-truths. Walburga’s mind flickered again, hurting, but not nearly as hard as it had before Leach’s healing. She saw Nobby Leach standing next to Mandy, and then she saw Mandy standing beside Nobby Leach but the pictures that kept going didn’t fit. They couldn’t fit properly.

There was something missing, something between where Nobby stood in her mind and where Mandy did. Walburga was a natural legilimens. She needed to only open her eyes and  **_read_ ** .

Mandy lunged backwards, not expecting such an intrusion from someone in Walburga’s state.

Tom Riddle stood in the centre of all of this.

Walburga threw up a little in her mouth. Ugh, some people gave themselves way too much room in the world to fuck things up and make it harder on everyone else. Walburga thought that this was incredibly selfish of Tom Riddle and she blamed him for this whole debacle. If she could, and she had tried, she would find a way of blaming Tom Riddle for World War II. But, he had a good alibi, what with being a child. The fink. How dare he?

Mandy Sullivan demanded that Walburga find Voldemort and bring him back. ’’I don’t know what your lot has done to him, but I will help him get out if it’s the last thing I do. He isn’t one of you.’’

Mandy Sullivan and Walburga Black agreeing on something???? It was more likely than anyone thought!

Walburga, too, agreed that Tom Riddle wasn’t one of them. He was an outsider. A pretty outsider, but nonetheless he didn’t belong.

’’Get to it.’’ Mandy Sullivan didn’t waste time as she sent Walburga off on her task. ’’The quicker you do this the fast you’ll stop owing your life to a mudblood. Chop chop.’’

* * *

’’Oooh.’’

’’What, sir?’’

’’Ooohhh,  _ that’s _ why the bitch came for me.’’

’’What, where?’’

’’In a swamp.’’

’’Excuse me?’’

’’I lived in a swamp for a few years.’’

’’WHY?!’’

’’It seemed more peaceful than what the Twenty-Eight offered me.’’

* * *

Walburga, in order to find a sliver of Tom Riddle’s whereabouts, first needed to go to the last place where the man lived. Which was Malfoy Manor.

What she didn’t expect to find there was an escaped Abraxas Malfoy, who was very cross with his friends and family.

He had short hair. Walburga blinked. ’’That’s a bold look for you.’’

’’THEY CUT MY HAIR!’’ Abraxas wailed. ‘’Those muggles cut my hair and said that it was a product of my addiction and reminded me solely of the life which had forced me into becoming addicted! All Malfoys have long hair! Like this I am no one!’’

’’A tragedy of epic proportions, I’m sure.’’ Walburga had sported short hair after Sirius was born because the little minx started pulling it. She wasn’t a great fan of losing control against a bloody toddler.

’’IT IS!’’ Abraxas continued to wail.

’’How did you escape from Australia?’’ Walburga didn’t know if anyone would be dumb enough to give this man a portkey, and he couldn’t craft one without a wand. He wasn’t that powerful. Did he look high, was her next question? Not really. He looked drunk, though, which wasn’t a stellar improvement.

’’I apparated.’’ Abraxas wasn’t balanced as he paced, or attempted to pace, around the foyer of Malfoy Manor. He limped, as if sustaining some sort of injury. 

’’Excuse me?’’

Cross continental apparation wasn’t unheard of, but it was rare and incredibly dangerous. One in ten thousand made it unscathed. Walburga wondered if his hair had been splinched. ’’Did they cut off your hair or did you splinch it in your apparating?’’ Her eyes strayed to the leg and she could see that it was bleeding. 

‘’They cut it off with scissors! It was devastating! I do not resemble any Malfoy!’’

‘’Well.’’ Walburga didn’t want to say that he looked fetching with short hair, and that long hair was an absolute mess to deal with on an everyday basis, so she only added: ‘’It is a change. Accept changes that come into your life, Abraxas.’’ Then, ‘’Why are you here?’’

He told her that he had tired of rehab and was going to stay here where his proper and rightful place was. Walburga told him that that wasn’t at all what was going to happen and that he needed to go back to rehab to get his addiction under control. ‘’Your actions have devastated the world.’’

‘’Peh!’’ 

Fine, Walburga could play dirty and be emotionally manipulative. ‘’Your actions have hurt Tom Riddle. He’s gone far away and I need to find him. Who knows if he’s even alive!’’

This he cared about and didn’t instantly brush off. ‘’Tom wouldn’t die…You’re exaggerating.’’

‘’He’s lost. I’ve decided to be a good person and go looking for him. Have you got anything embedded with his magic that I could track him by?’’

Abraxas decided to cause a great fuss about going with her. Walburga wasn’t one to take on charity cases. She told him to piss off, managed to spell him immobile (as his wand was still with her someplace in Grimmauld Place until he got better), and then fire-called Thoros from Iceland.

He sighed a sigh of a man who was in dire need of new friends. ‘’Brax, why won’t you let us take care of you?’’

Abraxas didn’t wish to speak with them. Fine, Walburga went to rummage about Malfoy Manor in search of that blasted journal she’d seen Tom Riddle covet as if it were his own two eyes.

Yvette Malfoy’s portrait looked down on her in the literal sense. Walburga Black looked down on her in the metaphorical sense. Neither enjoyed each other’s company.

‘’You could have put him in line.’’ Yvette said. ‘’He would have been a biddable husband to you.’’

‘’Yes, but I rather prefer our friendship. You ruined him. He’ll pull through, of course, I’ll make sure of it.’’

Yvette was just about to say something deprecating about her son when Walburga talked over her, quite a pro at doing this: ‘’You bore me. I am on a mission and cannot be bothered with your irate nattering. Either tell me where I can find Riddle’s belongings or I’ll remove you.’’

‘’Remove me?’’ Yvette floundered unexpectedly at the threat. She had expected Walburga to be much classier than this. Walburga had tired of being classy for the sake of old pureblood ladies fawning over her.

‘’Yes. I shall have you removed and buried in a box, or a trunk, or a treasure chest – and then you shall rot as the magic feeding your existence will fade. It will be slow and it will be underneath my family home where Abraxas will never be able to get to you. He is the only one keeping you alive in this form. Do remember that your existence depends solely on his good will. And…well, my  _ thinning _ patience.’’

Yvette’s face blanched. The French were terribly expressive. Walburga took out her wand and tapped it against her palm, awaiting a proper response. Yvette’s portrait swung to reveal a secret door. Walburga bid her adieu and thanked her for her help. ‘’It is always good to find that foreigners like you know their place.’’

Walburga found the diary and thus found herself in the presence of a sixteen-year-old.

He stuck his tongue out at her. ‘’If it isn’t Miss Black, as terrible as ever, I see.’’

‘’Shut up,  **_you child._ ** ’’

* * *

‘’I have… absolutely… no recollection about any of this happening.’’

‘’You never tried accessing your horcruxes before?’’

‘’Never really tried it. Once you make one, that part of your soul just stops being yours. It’s like when a child is born and they cut the cord…’’

‘’Well, you know, I think souls are a tad more complicated than that.’’

‘’Could be.’’

‘’Please, don’t fall asleep and leave me here all alone to fend off your own mind.’’

‘’I shall try.’’

* * *

Abraxas was causing a great big fuss about everything. Thoros, always weak on him, got overwhelmed. Walburga pinched the bridge of her nose and said, more for her benefit than anyone else’s: ‘’Imagine marrying that thing…’’

His emotions were repugnantly all over the place. Walburga had to bat them away with her mental shields, otherwise she would fall prey to their noxious and dastardly presence. She had very little, if no, patience for people going through a lot and needing help. Walburga never needed any help! She was just perfect!

The Diary in her presence called her names. She wondered if she would ever stop both wanting and hating Tom Riddle’s guts. ‘’Stop acting like a child.’’ She imagined that only a twelve-year-old might find the presence of sixteen-year-old Tom Riddle suave and intimidating.

‘’Are you here to apologize to me for being a bitch and causing me so much grief and only bolstering my fear of death?’’

Walburga, of course, would not apologize for things that she did not see as her responsibility. ‘’OF COURSE NOT!’’

Abraxas looked over to her. He was crying those fat ugly tears that Walburga had trained herself not to exhibit in fear of shaming herself and her bouts of rare emotional vulnerability.

She breathed in deeply and sighed equally as such. ‘’Your emotions are your own. Your thoughts are your own. Keep them to yourself and do not accept foreign ones that only want to contradict your path.’’ A layer of magic swirled around her as she finished saying this small mantra. It was more of a prayer to herself, really, because Walburga would rather fuck muggle men in the afterlife than she would pray to someone else. ‘’Abraxas, I have very little patience for your hysterics.’’

Abraxas looked at her then and somehow cried harder. Walburga sighed, aggravated. None of this was going as she planned. She took his face in her hands and said, because every time she asked Abraxas to bend down slightly in order for her to get a hold of him, it always made things awkward: "Don't you think that being proper like all Malfoys before you is agreeable? Shouldn't it be top priority, dear Abraxas? You must return to us with a clear head that is screwed on right, mustn't you?" Walburga smiled. She tried for it to be motherly. A bit sick, she conceded, to pretend to be a mother to a grown man. Men really were stunted.

Abraxas squirmed. He tried to speak, but he expected Walburga to cut him off so he did not continue. But Walburga didn't cut him off. She waited, in fact. When he caught on that she would not be angry with him for speaking his mind, it was like a flood broke through a dam. Walburga would endure. She needed to find Riddle and the only one that might be able to help her was locked inside of an emotional wreck lovingly called Braxas Malfoy. ‘’Let it out.’’ She gazed into his eyes and coaxed everything out of him, letting him know that she was going to be there for him. That, if anything, he could always count on her. 

‘’I do not want to go back.’’ Abraxas hiccuped into her hair. She’ll need to wash it. ‘’Don’t make me go back, Walbie.’’ 

Thoros rolled his eyes and grimaced out of sight. He relayed to Walburga that Abraxas was, as always, being a very giant nuisance and drama queen.

‘’Has anyone hurt you?’’ Walburga asked Abraxas instead. They were sending him to muggles, after all. Nothing less than the absolute horrid could be expected. 

Abraxas opened his mouth, but this time Walburga cut him off. ‘’Be honest.’’

After a lengthy pause, he sighed. ‘’No.’’ He tried to touch his hair, no doubt wanting to twirl it as he always did when nervous and scared. There was no hair to curl. They had cut it very short, indeed. ‘’Nobody has hurt me. Hair will grow back.’’

‘’I like your hair.’’ Walburga said, always being able to pinpoint people’s weaknesses. Usually she used this to knock them down. Here, she used her abilities to build someone up. ‘’It suits you. Aren’t you the first Abraxas?’’ Gods knew Walburga wasn’t the first Walburga in her family line. But Abraxas was a strange name, even by magical standards. 

‘’I am.’’ Abraxas whispered. ‘’It came to my father in a dream.’’ 

Walburga nodded. ‘’That’s wonderful. It shows that you are unique and much stronger than your family. A fresh start, a piece that doesn’t need to be the same as all the others. Isn’t that right? Just look at how you dress, you madman!’’ 

He cracked a smile. His emotions were overwhelming her. Walburga breathed in shakily and out even shakier. ‘’Why do you have to be like all the other Malfoys?’’

‘’It’s expected… I have to be.’’

Walburga made a grimace because, well, yes, he had to be. She had to be. Thoros had to be. Everyone had to be like their ancestors in the sense that it was improper if one didn’t try and uphold their values, but - then again - Walburga, also, wanted to tell Abraxas that running away wasn’t such a bad thing either. She’d planned on eloping with Orion if the Malfoys wouldn’t break off the engagement. It wasn’t anything she just told people, of course. How could she? It was improper! But the sentiment was, very much, there.

‘’Do you ever feel drowned by your family’s expectations, Walbie?’’ Abraxas asked her and Walburga wanted to change the subject very badly. She could feel his displeasure emanating off of him, seeping from him in abundance, and attacking her like a tidal wave, like a tsunami. Walburga did not like it when she had to be nice to people, especially not when she actually had to listen to them and take in what they were saying. It was a burden she was not fond of. Orion was enough. Abraxas, only this once, she would make an exception for. 

‘’I do, Abraxas.’’ She whispered. Thoros glanced over at them, then. He was still there. It was easy to forget about him, as quiet and unnoticeable as he could be. There had to be something strange about him, what with his ability to just charm fairies into liking and protecting him. He had Abraxas as his best friend and Elektra as his wife. ‘’It is one of the hardest things I have had to accept about the life I lead. We will forever be burdened by our family’s ancient history and the duty to uphold and nurture it. We are keepers of it, and one day, if we are lucky, we might even contribute to it.’’

Abraxas was not happy to hear this. He pulled himself away from her grasp and filled her with sadness next, when he looked at her. ‘’I would like to be free from it. I have never felt more uneasy than I have since becoming Lord Malfoy.’’

How could Walburga ever reply to that? She could feel Abraxas' anxiety and it was growing. Thoros could see she struggled. 

Thoros gently told him that that was not an option. "You are Lord Malfoy, Abraxas. It is tradition and I am so, so sorry that you are burdened by your heritage. It is not what we are supposed to feel. We are supposed to feel wonderful and loved. It is a testament of the people who came before us that we are meant to be here, if only to help preserve-"

"I don't want any of that!" Abraxas stood high now. He was not taller than Thoros, but he was taller than Walburga and she was going to bloody have a word with whoever had made her. It was an injustice. Though, at least, Riddle was malnourished and therefore around her height. Heh. The twerp. 

"After you get clean." Walburga was losing patience. She was going to reel back her emotions and tell Abraxas to fuck off. This was the last time she bloody tried to calm and listen to her loved ones. Ugh. Emotions were such hard work. "We shall talk more about this after you get clean. For now it is your duty and responsibility to get better. In the meantime Thoros and I will be here to help you with your burden. When you come home you will see that it is not a burden, but a gift."

Abraxas nodded. He was not convinced. He still looked caged, but Walburga was too tired to get more into it. She whispered, to herself: "All which I do not think is unwelcome." And felt so much lighter afterwards. She heaved a sigh and told Thoros to get Abraxas to a new facility. 

"There is one in New Zealand…" Thoros said.

Abraxas looked dejected as he listened to plans being made to send him off. He looked like a bloody puppy caught in heavy rain, disallowed from entering inside the warm, cozy home. 

"Do you know where Riddle might have wanted to go if he didn't want to be found?"

Without missing a beat, showing a testament of how well Abraxas knew Tom, he said: "He told me once, in passing, that he wanted to see how free Dementors lived."

Walburga blanched. She could feel the presence of the teenage soul piece laughing at her. 

"Oh, Miss Black, not so tough now. I can speak to them. Who knows…" the damned thing all but purred, "maybe I shall be finally bold enough to have one of them devour your soul and leave you a husk?" The boy could be cruel, Walburga knew. He relished in her fear. And sing sang so loudly that Walburga thought that Thoros and Abraxas might be able to pick up on him. "Ding dong! The witch is dead!" This had to be some inane muggle reference. He was known for making them and then explaining them when no one got them. "That's you, you will be the witch!" 

"Perfect." Walburga almost spat.

* * *

"You really dislike Walburga."

"Hmm."

Hermione shook him awake. "Sir, don't fall asleep."

* * *

‘’Don’t tell me you’re scared.’’ Tom Riddle, the diary, the child, the utter fiend, grinned at Walburga. He was being very cruel about their circumstances. They were both just near a forest somewhere in a faraway place that not many people knew even existed in the UK. This was the place where Dementors lived and what a place it was indeed. Around them coiled a feeling of dread and foreboding, littered ever so slightly with fear of the unknown.

Walburga was tense. Her shoulders were rigid. She wore an expression of grim over her visage like the most illustrious and fashionable coat. This was definitely not how she had expected this search to go. She’d expected, of course, to go to despicable places where no self-respecting Brit might venture into (like America!) but this was beyond the pale, really. ‘’Riddle, this is a forest – swamp,’’ Walburga shook off her shoe after it had drenched itself in a pit of swamp-like monstrosity. ‘’full to the brim with DEMENTORS!’’ How could one not be afraid? Walburga clutched her wand in one hand and in the other the diary. She’d cast tracking magic. Utilizing one’s horcrux in order to find that someone was actually quite easy. Such a shame not many people made horcruxes. It was, unfortunately, a dark ritual. Cannibalism was involved. Walburga didn’t know how to feel about the fact that, during her schoolgirl days, she’d antagonized a bloody cannibal. That just kind of put things into a weird perspective.

Said cannibal made teasing sounds at her: ‘’Nyeh, Miss Black’s not to  _ scary _ now.’’

Walburga hoped that her children didn’t turn out to be this idiotic, this foolish, this downright annoying: ’YOU UTTER CHILD! HOW DID I  _ EVER _ SEE YOU AS A WORTHY OPPONENT?!’’

Tom Riddle only kept grinning. He danced a little jig and wished her nothing but agony and misfortune. ‘’They’ll suck out your soul! I shall have front-row seats to this spectacle. Miss Black, I have waited for this for decades. To see you reduced to what you are in your most honest design.’’

Walburga shook these words off. She looked to the looming trees, the bent and cracked branches, the swampy terrain threatening to devour her whole if she only missed a step in her confusion and scared haze. Then she realised, no, she did not realise, she forced herself to accept that there was no turning back. She had to find Riddle in order to pay off that life-debt, or else her own magic was going to suffocate her if Mandy Sullivan didn’t deign to think of another thing to say to have her do. Ah, the fallacies and intricacies of magic. Walburga was only a fan while she cheated the system and had it work in her favour. Being at any sort of disadvantage was really hard and she didn’t like it. How could anyone possibly live like this and survive the Black dominated world of Magical Britain?

No, but she was stalling. Walburga thought of Orion, thought of Sirius, thought of Regulus – and she cast the patronus charm. A mongoose sprang out of the tip of her wand and formed her companion for this journey. Tom Riddle booed at it. ‘’How the bloody hell can you have enough of a pure soul to cast a patronus?’’

‘’I SIMPLY HAVE A SOUL!’’

‘’OH THAT IS SO UNFAIR!’’

‘’WELL, IF YOU WANTED TO BE ABLE TO CAST A PATRONUS CHARM, RIDDLE, MAYBE YOU SHOULD NOT HAVE SPLIT YOUR DAMNED SOUL?’’

‘’I am immortal! It was a calculated risk and I took it, fully aware of what I was getting into.’’

‘’HA! I bet I’ll outlive you!’’

* * *

‘’This creature of horror and anarchy came back to life, Hermione… fully aware of this conversation.’’ Tom Riddle, the mentor, looked to Hermione. His eyes were haunted.

‘’I won’t pretend to know your history with Walburga, sir, but she just seems like a very intense, but less damaging version of Lord Voldemort.’’

‘’She bullied me.’’ This both explained everything and nothing at the same time.

‘’She was your Draco Malfoy?’’ Hermione tried to understand. Her ears burned hot with embarrassment when her mentor snorted derisively.

‘’The mere fact that you’re friends with your bully just paints a picture that you’ve definitely never experienced true terror like the kind Walburga Black can inflict upon others.’’

‘’I suppose. Did you ever, you know, hash it out with her? I mean, for a time, you were more powerful than her and more feared?’’

At the silence that stretched between them, Hermione stammered. ‘’Weren’t you?’’

‘’I’d rather not talk about this, Hermione.’’

Hermione dropped the subject, aware that powerful men like her mentor had very fragile egos and had their pride easily wounded. Also, some things weren't worth delving into. She would not want to find out what kind of things Walburga was capable of that had rattled Voldemort to his core like this. 

* * *

Traversing a swamp full of Dementors with a child horcrux and a patronus that was flimsy wasn't on Walburga's bucket list for a reason. It was terrifying and she was not a fan of this experience. She rated it a subpar one out of ten constellations. 

A Dementor crossed her path and looked at her. She looked back. The child mocked and made oohing noises how she was going to die and be left here to rot forever. "Your family will never recover your body! Your body will be gnawed on by worms and other unseemly creatures. I will dance upon it for all to see. Finally able to show my contempt for you."

"Reel it in." Walburga wished for the child to knock it off. The dementor moved on, not wanting to fight off a patronus, if even a flimsy one like Walburga had. "I am trying to help you. Who knows if you are hurt? Perhaps you are in even more danger than I anticipated. Are you so certain that Dementors will be fond of you?"

"I will tame them!" The child was cocky and arrogant and thought Lord Voldemort all powerful and omniscient. Walburba did not know how to shatter that hope and tell him that Lord Voldemort was a man still, like any other. 

"Tame them? How the Little Prince tamed the fox?" Walburga was drowning in children's books. She rubbed at her temples anxiously and moved fast through the rest of the swamp. 

Riddle hummed then. Walburga asked him what it was. "Chopin's funeral march."

Walburga screamed out of frustration. A bunch of birds that were huddling on a nearby tree flew, sensing danger more temperamental than a starving dementor. Walburga saw this as a victory. If she could not scream down Tom Riddle’s evil, evil, dirty self away from her – then she could, at least, fight birds.

There was a trail that led them towards a small clearing. They followed it, but had to hide quickly as a great load of dementors circled the premises. Walburga held the patronus close to her chest. It was flickering on and off with exertion. She was not adept at holding happy memories. But, for the sake of her continued living existence, she’d make a habit of casting the patronus charm more often. In order to get used to it, and even make a double patronus. It wasn’t unheard of, really.

The dementors clustered around something. Walburga couldn’t make it out without giving away her position. Tom Riddle narrowed his eyes and tried to reach what the thing of interest was. ‘’Probably some animal.’’ He shrugged.

‘’Animals haven’t got souls.’’ Walburga scoffed.

‘’Have you ever seen a dog? That thing’s definitely got a soul.’’

Walburga didn’t like the fact that she was arguing with a sixteen-year old who, if she said something, needed to say the opposite. It wasn’t how she imagined her life going. A fire burned in her chest that urged her to go forward. She angled the diary towards the cluster and found that it grew hot in her grasp. Oh no. Her eyes widened and she thought of Orion, she thought of Sirius, she thought of Regulus – and she cast her patronus charm with all of her magical being, channelling this in order to get its illuminating, iridescent light out into the world. Her first one had all but faded, but if her hunch was correct – oh – oh no. No, no no. She needed to act fast.

The mongoose was faint as it swirled around the dementors. They looked at it, as if it was a nuisance. One of them batted it away with a clawed hand. It squealed like a deflated balloon and Walburga’s pride all but diminished.

Tom Riddle howled with laughter and called her a disappointment to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. ‘’Stick to the Mind Arts, Miss Black! Happiness does not suit you, it seems.’’ He laughed so hard that he had to hold his sides or else he would have pissed himself. Walburga’s left eye twitched. She wished that she could punch a child. But if she touched him, he would try to steal her life force. And, really, that was the last thing Walburga needed right now. Horcruxes were nothing but parasites.

‘’Hello!’’ Walburga shouted and all of the Dementors turned to look at her. Their hooded, concealed faces peered at her deeply, analysing her and picking if she was worth their time and effort. One of them decided to come over and Walburga felt fear strangle her into place. Her eyes watered at the cold that prickled all over her skin, giving her a nice layer made out of goosebumps. She moved back once, twice, thrice. The creature continued to glide towards her. More soon followed. Tom Riddle hissed, wishing her nothing but death and suffering. Walburga didn’t even heed his words, too focused on the task laid in front of her. She kept stepping backwards, until her back hit a tree – and one of the dementors outstretched a clawed hand towards her, inching to take her apart and kiss all of her worries away. Walburga quite liked her worries. She screamed, terrified out of her right mind. It almost, almost, drowned out the way Tom Riddle was living it up. The little twat. No wonder he had to flee to a swamp, only fools would ever like his presence. Poor, tragic Abraxas got on her mind, then, and Walburga wished that he would pull through and learn that he deserved to love himself. So much self-loathing in that one. So much self-loathing, she glanced over at the horcrux, in a man that hated himself so much he had to split himself into many pieces and scatter himself all across the world, too, for that matter.

Walburga ducked out of the way of the Dementors. They grabbed at her feet, but she was to the ground now, and dragging herself towards where they had clustered moments prior. Just above her was a wide range of dementors, some had their coats darker than others, denoting age. The faded ones were older and slower. She kicked one off of her and struggled to move, the diary was discarded in her fight for her life. Her eyes were shot wide and she was shaking. Oh she was shaking and she was going to fight this and survive. Walburga would not die in a swamp, in a place where her family could not collect her body and mourn it properly. She would not deprive her dear Orion this. She would not deprive her sons of a mother that had still so much to teach them.

She caught a glimpse of her target. And suddenly – what a ridiculous notion – no, this needed to be corrected. Because suddenly didn’t work with Walburga Black. The author had wanted to write ‘suddenly, a burst of rage overcame her’, but that just wasn’t factually sound. Walburga Black was always full of rage. Therefore, that wouldn’t work and would paint a mischaracterization of Walburga’s character. It would be, in layman’s terms, considered slander.

So, Walburga Black saw her target, splayed out on a turned over tree, dazed, and incredibly reminiscent of how she imagined homeless people to look (she’d never actually bothered to glance at them, choosing not to surround herself with the less fortunate and therefore, less important than her). And Walburga shouted, her voice channelling that ingrained habit of hers to just instantly make everyone pay attention to her due to fear and reverence that they had for her blood: ‘’RIDDLE! RIDDLE, FOR CIRCE’S SAKE, WAKE UP!’’

The Dementors were not deterred by her screaming. It only goaded them further on because spirited souls tasted the sweetest, and their soul-sugar was running low.

Riddle, the one she’d gone on this madman’s quest to find, was staring blankly up at the sky. There were frostbite marks all over his body. Walburga dragged herself faster, closer, in an attempt to shake off the Dementors, but they were adamant to get her. Had she gotten here too late? Had they sucked out what little soul the man had? Walburga didn’t know what to do then? Was her life debt over if she just brought the man’s body back to her? It better be! Because Walburga had not gone all this way for a dead body and an unresolved life debt on her hands.

She scuttled over to him and tried to shake him awake. He had something around his mouth, as if he had frotted minutes prior. It disgusted Walburga and she let everyone know: ‘’What else can I expect from a dirty mudblood?!’’ She wished to clean her hands of this nonsense. And to her, seeing someone die, was very much nonsense. A shame, really, that someone so foul like Riddle was, also, incredibly handsome. Walburga looked at the ongoing approach of the Dementors, looked down at Tom Riddle’s almost dead (she wasn’t quite sure), almost kissable lips. And really, Walburga didn’t want to die with regrets. Necrophilia wasn’t that big of a leap for her to make!

Against anyone’s better judgement, she dipped down to kiss the man whose ruin and destruction she’d been fantasizing about for decades. The moment their lips connected, the man’s horrified eyes opened and he screamed into her mouth. Walburga betted that her lips had healing properties, because she’d thought the man dead. Though, really, with the horcrux – it was a tad too difficult to tell. He was resilient, like a cockroach. What an apt animal for him, really.

He didn’t really punch her, so much as he fearfully pushed her back. Because Tom Riddle wouldn’t have the bloody mental fortitude to punch anyone of such importance and radiance which Walburga Black exuded. She was, after all, in face anyone had ever forgotten, a member of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. She demanded respect, not half-dead men punching her with the flat of their palm. It just didn’t ring the same way. Honestly, if anyone ever came to view these memories, she hoped that it wasn’t anyone that thought highly of her. She fell into the swampy mud and screamed in pain. The fucker, to add salt to injury, had hit her with some form of wandless cruciatus.

A woman couldn’t kiss a man without his permission these days without suffering dire consequences. It was all so very absurd to her.

* * *

‘’Did I ever tell you that your life’s very much Romanesque?’’

‘’Like the bloody architectural style?’’

‘’No, ah, wrong word. My brain’s thinking in Bulgarian for some strange reason. What I meant to say it that you can make your life into a novel and I bet it’ll entertain a few very morbid people.’’

_ ‘’Ah _ , but nobody would ever dare to write it all down. Now that takes morbid guts.’’ Tom Riddle said. 

‘’I’m sure there’s some person out there bold enough to write all of this down.’’ Hermione called these such individuals out. 

‘’It can’t be marketed, obviously, it’ll turn out to be too long.’’

‘’Yes, I reckon that might be a bit of a problem.’’

‘’Will you write it?’’ Tom Riddle asked Hermione, who, unlike the author, had a good head on her shoulders and wasn’t nearly as invested in the interpersonal relationships of Tom Marvolo Riddle and the socio political situation of the magical world. 

‘’God no, sir. It’s bad enough I’m here enduring all of this. But to think of grammatical syntax and proper word choice? That’s a masochist’s job.’’

‘’Fair enough. There are a lot of those out there.’’ Tom Riddle bobbed his head. ‘’Orion’s the biggest one, I reckon, to endure Walburga Black’s sadistic nature.’’

‘’She can’t be THAT bad, sir.’’

Tom Riddle just looked at her. ‘’She was  **_obsessed_ ** with me. No, correction, she was obsessed with seeing me in pain and frightened.’’

* * *

Walburga, fuelled now by her passionate belief in being completely indestructible, and the fact that she’d kissed Tom Riddle and had him look at her with abject horror (an expression which she will dream about each night and whimsically look back on as one of the loveliest, sexiest expressions she’d ever had the pleasure of witnessing) decided that she would kick arse and not let some bloody dementor do her in. Oh no! She had purpose! She was unstoppable! She’d kissed ruddy Tom Riddle, that mentally ill fink that pretended he was perfectly all right because of societal stigma!

When a dementor approached her hungrily, and while Tom Riddle was attempting to gurgle some swamp water to get the lavacious taste of royalty out of his mouth, Walburga summoned a patronus, thinking back on her giddiest, most hilarious accomplishment. Tom Riddle’s agonized face. The patronus that emerged from Walburga’s wand, then, was a mongoose, as well, but one that was draped in light and iridescence the likes of which Walburga had not summoned before - back when she’d been thinking about her family. No, kissing someone against their consent and traumatizing them was definitely a happier memory to leech from. 

This patronus shattered a dementor. All of the other ones lifted their hands in a submissive gesture and fled. Walburga cackled. The swamp had just gotten its new apex predator. 

* * *

‘’Holy shite, sir.’’

‘’I really don’t like her.’’

‘’She just effortlessly did that!’’

‘’You will find that Walburga Black can do a lot of things effortlessly as long as she makes someone nearby her suffer. It’s like a calling for the woman.’’ 

Hermione said that she’d definitely mellowed out in her old age. 

‘’All of us have.’’ Tom Riddle told her gently. ‘’We all used to be much bigger than this, much more prone to grandstanding. The world revered and feared us. Nowadays it only hunts and haunts us.’’ 

Hermione would prefer that her wounded, still mentor didn’t make such odd and jumbled claims so far into his mind. She glanced over to the memory taking place in a swamp of all places and said: ‘’I hope things can’t get worse than this.’’

Her mentor groaned: ‘’Why would you be so callous with our very lives and minds, Hermione? Why?’’

She blushed crimson and stammered out an apology, calling him beyond superstitious along the way. 

* * *

Walburga sent a surge of a warming charm onto Voldemort. ‘’You are not allowed to die on me in a  **_swamp_ ** .’’ She’d unearthed the diary from a mud bed and tried cleaning it off, but she got frustrated with it and had to use magic to do it. 

Voldemort glared fiercely at her and hissed: ‘’I do not want to have anything with you. You are unwelcome here. Leave.’’ Some of that water must have been magically charged because, by drinking it, he glowed a tad green. Kind of reminiscent of an ogre, really. Walburga had never met one, but she’d count this as a close enough encounter to scare her children with. ‘’Get out of my swamp!’’ Voldemort shouted. 

Walburga scoffed. ‘’I am not leaving here without you. Remember, Riddle, you owe me a debt.’’ 

Voldemort sent a wandless cutting hex on her. It cut a lock of her hair. It would have cut a lot more had she not moved out of the way in just a knick of time. As she watched her precious hair tumble down, she came to the conclusion that there was no use speaking and negotiating with mudbloods. She balled her hands into fists and attacked him. 

In retrospect she might conclude that fighting someone without magic was a tad too plebeian, but what happened in this swamp stayed in the swamp and nobody would become privy to their mud wrestling. He kicked her and she scratched him and they rolled around, screaming at each other. 

By the end of this fight, Walburga could write a poetry book based on all of the rhyming curses she’d heard from this Woolwich resident. 

She finally subdued him - as if it were hard what with his being completely messed up because of his prolonged proximity to Dementors - and told him, never gently because that wasn’t her style: ‘’STOP FIGHTING YOUR BETTERS! YOU’RE ILL AND I AM HERE TO HELP!’’

‘’Help?’’ He barely rasped out. ‘’You’ve never helped anyone!’’

‘’This is slander. I have helped MANY people. You were never a part of them.’’

‘’And I am now?’’

Walburga lied: ‘’I came here because I care about you.’’

Voldemort grimaced. 

Walburga amended. ‘’There’s a life debt hanging over me.’’

Voldemort nodded. He turned away from her. ‘’Then go die. I shall not save you.’’

Walburga took her wand and aimed at his head: ‘ **_’IMPERIO_ ** !’’

* * *

‘’OH MY GOD!’’

‘’God cannot help you here, Hermione.’’

* * *

Little known fact about Tom Marvolo Riddle: he was a very spiteful individual, too. This was why when Walburga cast the imperius curse on him, his eyes glazed over as the curse worked, but he pulled away at the mere thought of obeying Walburga Black’s hideous orders. He would rather destroy the whole world than subject himself to being somebody’s tool – it was a fire that Nobby Leach had stoked and tended to, but it would die out by the time he would properly become Lord Voldemort. Then he was a tool to the purebloods, whether he liked to admit it or not. He was self-serving, of course, but he was all the more becoming bit by bit a tool that helped their side of the upcoming war. 

Though, for now, he was very much intent on pissing Walburga Black off until she wheezed like a kettle and threatened him his life. He could feel the spidery hold on his mind and with quick work he made sure to shake it off of himself, sending a ripple effect towards Walburga that shocked her.

Moments after, she screamed out of frustration, and fled before he could send another attack at her. 

Voldemort took this opportune moment to stand up on shaky feet, shudder, and hiss in parseltongue:  _ ‘’May I not rest even for a moment? May I not even salvage what little peace of mind I have without the Twenty Eight coming to ruin my life?’’ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Three Year aniversary of this story. Those who have been with me since 2017 I wish you the best. Those that haven't, I wish you well, but not the best. 
> 
> This story has turned into something far greater than I ever expected it to be. I've taken it to places where I know JKR would never go and, to be honest, I wouldn't have it any other way. This story has taught me so much about writing and has helped me get through terrible circumstances in my life and I only wish that it can offer you if only a small fraction of the escapism I'm using it for. 
> 
> Fun fact, this is the very first story where Abraxas Malfoy appears in that I've written and it's very hilarious and on-the-nose that this story is the longest I will ever write. I remember when I hit 100k and was so surprised, it was around Death in December I believe. There have been so many different variations of drafts that I've discarded, word documents that I've wirtten with thousands of words that I just chucked into oblivion because they didn't fit what I wanted for this story. So, if anyone's ever wondering why I've not updated as fast as some might want to, it's because I'm trying to get out the best possible version of a chapter that I can. I don't have a BETA nor do I want one, because ew, relying on people sucks and this bitch could NEVER. But it's also because sometimes I hate these characters. I do, god, I hate that my brain just keeps pushing for more complexities, for more nuance, for more dynamics, for more intricacies of a world that is so deeply ingrained in my brain now because the way the Twenty-Eight operate and the whole BLOOD and FAMILY NAME thing is so familiar in my life that I can't help but realise what missed opportunities I have never seen in fandom and I just can't NOT write it down and share it. 
> 
> I don't think I've talked this much in ages. I guess I'm feeling sentimental that it's been three years since I've begun this journey. 
> 
> NEXT CHAPTER: JERRY THE DEMENTOR!!!!!!!! THAT GODAWFUL PAINTING OF THEIRS FROM RIDDLE MANOR GETS PAINTED! WALBURGA USES HER WOMANLY WILES ON TOM RIDDLE. TOM RIDDLE'S GOT ISSUES THAT HE DOES NOT WISH TO ADDRESS. EVER. NEVER. EVER. EVER.


	59. Depression Swamp II: Electric Boogaloo

Dementors didn’t take too kindly to new apex predators cropping up in their swamp. They delegated the task of apprehending these predators and bringing them forth for judgement to a plucky dementor who had aspirations that didn’t only revolve around eating human souls and terrifying the daylights out of them.

This Dementor had dreams, damn it!

Aspirations that weren’t understood or accepted by the other Dementors. They said in their hiss-like language that wasn’t exactly parseltongue but was close enough, ’’Dude, you definitely need to prove your worth to the squad.’’ A bunch of Dementors was called a squad because they were squad goals.

Then this Dementor nodded and said the equivalent of: ’’All right, you’re definitely right, my supreme dude.’’ Supreme dude was what they called their squad leader.

Anyhow. The Dementor first apprehended the loud soul. It was very easy to attack souls that were scared of soul eaters. Next up, once he’d spelled her immobile and paralysed her with fear, he went to apprehend a very weird soul.

They hadn’t touched this soul much, thinking that it might be a confused baby dude. Baby dude meant infant dementor. He was holding a little book. Together they had just enough of a soul for this dementor to realise that this wasn’t a baby dude in front of him, but an actual human being with enough soul to devour and prosecute.

’’WAIT, NO!’’ The human hissed in their language, but the dementor had had orders. It swooped and scooped the human up with its little book.

This human had really cool bone structure, the dementor had to concede.

* * *

  
Voldemort woke up to find himself tied to Walburga Black. ’’Fucking perfect,’’ he said because he was feeling cheeky after waking up.

Walburga didn’t give him the middle finger, mostly because it was tied up, but she really wished to do so. Nontheless it was felt in her voice when she said: ’’Stop being a pansy, Riddle and pose for the nice Dementor.’’

Voldemort looked ahead, once his vision cleared up, and he saw that a Dementor had taken up an easel, a palette, and was wearing a French beret. It lifted up a clawed thumb up at them as if to say: keep that position, please. You’re doing marvelously darlings.

’’What the fuck is happening?’’

’’Jerry’s drawing us. After this is done, he’s going to suck our souls out to prove to the other, older dementors that his heart’s in the right place. It’s a very formative bildungsroman-like tale of wonder and passion.’’

Voldemort looked at Walburga as if she were insane. She gestured to a patch of mud in front of them where, as if someone had used a very big stick or a claw, had written out everything she’d just said. ’’Jerry learned how to write.’’

’’It say it’s written as Jerri.’’

’’Jerry doesn’t know about the letter y yet, but he’s learning.’’

Voldemort blinked slowly, trying to make sense of what he’d learned. He looked to Jerry and got told that he should smile more to appear pretty. He had nothing but disdain for people that told him to smile when he felt like breaking down. How did women deal with this nonsense? He glanced over at Walburga, who was smiling prettily and batting her eyelids at Jerry as if she had a chance at seducing a dementor. She had more chance seducing Voldemort’s dead father.

Soon, more Dementors came to watch as Jerry painted them. They either critiqued his work or they told him that he should devour their souls more quickly because this wasn’t fun to watch. It was one of those two things definitely, because Jerry took a paintbrush and smashed it against the other dementor’s head. They began hissing at each other in earnest.

Walburga whispered: ’’Untie me.’’

Nothing.

’’NOW?!’’

Voldemort smiled cheekily. ’’Why on earth should I?’’

’’Because I’m working specifically to help you? Since when did you become this stupid? I always KNEW you were an idiot, but it never quite occurred to me that you might be such a bloody fool, however.’’

Jerry swiped the paintbrush like a knife at the other Dementor, who was clawing at Jerry. It was an all out dude brawl. Dude brawl meat Dementor fight for dominance. It was wicked cool.

This Dementor that Jerry was fighting was actually the supreme dude dementor.

Walburga threatened to bite Tom Riddle if he didn’t comply and help untie her. ’’It’s a magical rope that Jerry’s bound us with, for Nimue’s sake, Riddle, DO SOMETHING!’’

Voldemort outright refused to cooperate. Walburga narrowed her eyes and tired to get into his head, but all she was a tall wall. He smirked at her then and said that there wasn’t a single chance of her getting into his head. ’’I’ve taken precautions. There isn’t a single situation that I am unprepared for.’’

Walburga snorted derisively at this. He snorted back at her. ’’Where’s your diary, you absolute child?’’

’’Jerry’s taken it.’’ In fact, someplace near the easel of Jerry the Dementor was the diary with both of their wands.

’’Noted.’’ Walburga said. ’’I brought that over to you as a peace offering.’’ She tried for more lies. He saw through them. ’’Well, fine, fuck you. I needed it to find your magical signature.’’

’’No, ah, fuck _you_!’’

Jerry managed to win his duel against the supreme dude. Everyone went crazy after this. Walburga utilized this cacophony to pour all of her magic and her ability into making her skin be made of barbed wire.

’’Ouch.’’ Voldemort said.

’’I asked you politely to untie me, but I suppose we’re doing it like this.’’ Soon enough she escaped and untied Voldemort, but then Jerry stepped up and told them that he was very mad that his artistic subjects had left their position. For efficiency’s sake, Voldemort had translated.

’’Jerry.’’ Walburga said. ’’We mean you no disrespect. In fact, I have utmost respect for artists. My husband is an artist himself, but I think we’ll take what you can give us. What you drew is enough.’’ Jerry glared. ’’Painted, my apologies. Gods, these artists are so touchy.’’

’’I’m a poet, Walburga.’’

’’Ha, you know your hand intimately then.’’

’’Why would you say something so crude in front of a dementor as sophisticated as Jerry?’’

Jerry was absolutely losing it at the crude joke. ’’While you were alseep Jerry and I were telling each other jokes.’’

Anyhow, what happened next might surprise people. Voldemort ousted Jerry and became supreme dude, putting into terms that nobody should follow a Dementor who was friends with humans, especially humans like Walburga, and that he, as their new leader, vowed to be more bloodthirsty than they could ever imagine. And that he was going to start all of this off with Walburga.

Walburga realised that, oh, she might be in danger. This wasn’t how she expected her journey into a Dementor infested depression swamp to work out.

Tom Riddle hissed and gathered the full force of the Dementors by his side, telling them that he was going to be their new ruler and that after they rid the world of Walburga Black he was going to help them get more rights and take back the human villages as their proper habitat that had been stripped from them in favour of giving overpopulating humans a chance to overpopulate the planet even more.

A political speech about Dementors was not something that Walburga had expected to hear, but she should have expected it. This was Tom Riddle, after all. He was a people pleaser at his core and, of course, he’d want to make fucking Dementors like him.

’’I am going to show the world that your screams can actually serve a purpose that isn’t only deafening people.’’ Voldemort smiled. ‘’Have you got anything to say?’’

Oof. Walburga had plenty to say. She began with a promise that she would make his dream come true and that she would love to make it up for him. ’’Do with me whatever you want, just call them away. I promise you. You of all people understand that, ah, revenge can be very delicious when one takes his time with it, can’t you?’’ Walburga inched away.

Voldemort moved closer. The Dementors trailing after him were abundant and billowing in the icy cold atmosphere of horror they’d created. She could feel her throat close up and her tears began, but she pulled them back. She had to survive this. Her patronus had died, overcome by the sheer force of Dementors learning that Tom Riddle, bloody fucking Tom Riddle, was someone who could control them through speech and persuasion. This was why they’d made the pogroms of parselmouths, Walburga shook and ended up hitting her back against a tree. The bark was coarse against her back and she pleaded: ’’I’ll do anything, _my lord_.’’

And that did something for Voldemort. She could tell. She could tell and she was happy that underneath all of that power lay a man like Orion. ’’You have made my life hell, Walburga.’’ He whispered and placed his long, slender index finger underneath her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. It was ravenous for her. He looked at her how she had looked at him for such a long time.

Walburga had dreamt of having the upstart Tom Riddle begging on his knees before her. She had wanted to break him and destroy him painfully atom by atom until he learned his place in the world. ’’I could kill you.’’ He said to her and she felt the voice probe for something strange, as if asking for permission to do so. She had never found herself all alone with him like this, under these circumstances. ’’I could kill you and nobody would know where you were. And even if they did come I could lie. Like I did to Dippet and Merrythought at Hogwarts. I could lie and say that a Dementor killed you and that I only found you. No, I won’t even find you. I won’t be leaving this place. This is the only world I need now.’’ There was something manic in his eyes as he went on, for the first time emerging from that lethargy she’d known him for in this swamp. This was Riddle studying for OWLs and NEWTs and the whole world as if it was one giant test he needed to ace. He cupped her head in his hands. They were dirty and coarse and cold – the coldest Walburga had ever touched. It was as if speaking to a corpse.

’’I could kill you, Walburga, and I would not be one bit sorry. Because you will have deserved it for your actions towards me. Your devious behaviour towards me at school, your sabotage after it – don’t think for one second that I do not know how you’ve colluded with Yvette to have Abraxas and my’s relationship tarnished. But even through all of that,’’ he spoke with an airy, almost magnetic resonance in his voice, as if he wasn’t even there while speaking, as if he was there, but he wasn’t really, as if he was out of his body and watching all of this go down, but he was actually speaking – Walburga couldn’t concentrate well because the Dementors were coming closer and closer and closer, ’’even through all of that, Walburga, I will destroy you not because of those things. Sure, they come as a bonus. But I will destroy you because you are a pureblood. You are as pure as they come and you have had everything handed to you since the moment you were brought into this world. It brings me immense joy to take you out of this world by not giving you what you so desperately want.’’

The Dementors hissed between each other, hungry now at having such a ripe, desperate soul in front of them. They saw Tom, without the diary as he was, as one of their own. Nobody with so little soul could be human. Obviously it was a dementor that had partially consumed a soul. Yes, go forth new dementor, go forth and lead them into a new age where humans would not make them work around that prison, where humans would not have them be hunted. Go forth and lead, and let this new reign of terror begin by eating this human in front. They hissed and it was a malicious maelstrom of noise.

’’I should kill you for being of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black as an example. Nobby would never kill any of you, but he was a foolish man with too big of a heart for the lot of you. _I have **no** heart._ You have torn it out of my chest, Walburga Black, and for that I am going to make you **_pay_**.’’

’’Well you’re a coward!’’ Walburga shouted.

Voldemort grabbed her face then with one of his hands and held it firmly, angrily telling her to explain herself. ’’Are those going to be your very last words? Some last ditch attempt at insult me? Your fifteen year old self had better one liners. Her words cut deeper than this has ever cut.’’

’’I cannot believe that you’re bloody traumatized because a fifteen year old girl called you names. No. I was eleven when it began! Don’t be a baby. Be a **_man_** , Riddle.’’

’’Bullying is not something to make light of!’’ Check one. Insult a man’s manhood.

’’No, no, of courseeee not.’’ Walburga was buying herself time. She needed to boast his ego, next, if she wanted this murder to become much more intimate. Her defense against dementors had faded, but her defense against men? Oh she had plenty of that left in her arsenal. ’’I just think you’re a coward for not killing me with your own bare hands and not allowing these Dementors to do it for you. What are you? A fucking house elf? But I guess you just wouldn’t know the first thing about killing me.’’ Check Two. Insult a man’s intelligence.

It just showed how absolutely horrible Voldemort’s state of mind was that he didn’t see any of this a mile away. Really, Walburga was afraid for her life. She didn’t know what subtlety was. It was quite obvious stuff when one wasn’t in the heat of the moment and about to kill one’s childhood bully that had continued bulying him well into adulthood. Walburga took away from all of this that she should have bullied Tom Riddle until he’d killed himself. That she’d not been bad enough of a bully and that she hoped her children took a leaf out of her book and went harder at life than she did.

Voldemort banished the Dementors away and told her that she would wish that he hadn’t done that by the time he was finished with her. And this was the time when Walburga begged, very prettily. It knocked him out of the loop, because he hadn’t expected it. ’’Oh wow, you’re actually going to do it. Can I convince you otherwise? My lord? Please, I’ll do anything you want, just don’t kill me. Please. I’ve a family, you know. I’ll kneel for you, as if you’re a proper lord actually. I’ll kneel and I’ll apologize for everything, how about that?’’

He took a step back. ’’Kneel then.’’ He called her bluff, thinking that it was a bluff. Walburga made a show of kneeling very slowly. ’’Wait fuck.’’ He whispered, having not expected this.

If Walburga ever had to wonder about the sexuality of one Lord Voldemort, otherwise known as Slytherin’s Mudblood Riddle, she need only remember this moment as one of the most hilarious moments in her life. ’’What next, my lord? How may I show my penance?’’

The man had looked so confused.

Walburga was just happy there weren’t any dementors anymore. Confused men were her area of expertise.

’’Say you’re sorry.’’ He said, that bravado from before having melted away. Now with more nuance, as if having her in this position wasn’t all what he’d expected it to be. ’’Apologize to me for everything you’ve done. I deserve the bare minimum, o Lady Black.’’

Walburga licked her lips and said that she knew a much better way to **_show_** how sorry she was. ’’Think of it as the ultimate victory.’’ Her hands flew for his trousers and he almost batted them away, but he noticed that she was unbuttoning his trousers and stilled, as if someone had spelled him immobile. Walburga smiled. Shock was such a lovely thing. She loved having this effect on men. But then she wiped the smile away when she realised that it might give her away. ’’You’ve always been my better, my lord. All of the names I’ve called you have been my futile attempt at riling you up. You are the most ingenious,’’ her hands were working each button slowly, so she would get more word vomit out of her mouth by the time the real finish came, ’’most daring and powerful wizard in the whole world. I am your servant, my lord, and you – you are our god.’’

She finally took his cock out of his trousers and before she took it into her mouth she glanced upward, seeing his shocked, gleeful, and incredibly confused face stare back at her. This was not the face of a man that had even an ounce of a shield in place.

Walburga sent what some might lovingly refer to as a mental equivalent of a roundhouse kick at Voldemort’s mind. He, having not expected it, and having not put up any shields in such a stressful situation she had created, stumbled back and fell backwards, cock and all.

She shuddered and shook at what she’d seen while attacking Riddle’s mind.

He screamed as he tried to fight her attack out of his mind. ’’What have you done to my mind you **_bitch_**?!’’

’’Oh sweet merciful Hades.’’ Walburga held her head in her hands. Her face was covered in snot and tears that wouldn’t stop coming down her face. She remembered that these were not her emotions. These were not her thoughts. This was not her mind. Her husband was alive. She was not in mourning. ’’You loved Minister Leach.’’

He screamed again and it was a blood curdling scream. Voldemort was smart, in only a couple of more tries he would figure out how to get rid of her attack, build up his shield, and come after her.

Walburga needed to act quickly. She pushed herself to her feet, looked around for her wand and where Jerry might have taken it. Spotted it alongside his wand near Jerry’s easel, sprinted for it, took it, and then decided to leave.

But before she did leave, she turned to look at Voldemort. She asked, just to make sense of the transfer of memory. ’’He was your best friend.’’

’’He was my everything.’’ Tom Riddle shouted, voice so raw from screaming that it wouldn’t be of any use tomorrow, ’’I **_loved_** him. And all of you took him away from me!’’ 

* * *

Walburga Black returned home with nothing to show for her trouble. She went to have a shower in a proper bathroom and cry about how incompetent she was with getting a deranged man to get out of a swamp because of something as terrible as mourning. The remnants she’d seen of Tom Riddle’s mind whilst inside of his head would haunt her.

She scrubbed her face raw and screamed into her soapy palms. The shampoo had lied. There were plenty tears.

Now, squeaky clean and ready to take on a new battle, Walburga strode towards her husband and told him, in not so many words because they were both legilimens, that she wanted some sexy time to commence and that she was desperate. Orion liked desperate people the most. He shrugged and said that they could find a time for a quickie. She kissed this man then and called him wonderful things.

’’Where are the children?’’

’’At your parents’.’’

’’Ah, excellent.’’

’’I can’t be bothered to be a single father.’’

’’Well, to be quite honest with you Ori, darling, I can’t be bothered to be a mother.’’

’’We made them and they’ll continue the family line.’’ Orion nodded.

’’Really, now, that ought to be enough from us for the next couple of years. Mayhaps when they grow older and outgrow this cry baby nonsense period of theirs I might actually speak to them.’’

Orion nodded again. ’’Until then, let the grandparents have another go.’’

Walburga loved her husband and children. As long as the former was underneath her and the latter were safe and as far away from her as possible.

One sexual experience later. Walburga wasn’t nearly as dissatisfied with Orion’s game as she had expected. This spending time in a swamp with a nutcase was definitely helping her value her husband more.

Alas, it was time to visit another nutcase. She kissed her husband goodbye and was just about to leave, but he handed her a stack of letters for said nutcase of theirs. ’’I imagine he’s feeling isolated. These letters will do him good.’’

Walburga nodded and absconded for bloody New Zealand.

New Zealand was a preposterous country. Walburga already thought that Australia was a preposterous place, but New Zealand seemed to win this imaginary competition playing out inside her head. She crossed her arms and wore a dress instead of a robe. It was to blend in and not get admitted into the establishment in front of her.

The muggles asked for her name. ’’Willow Brown.’’

They saw her on the visiting list of one Abraham Mallory and let her go inside, telling her that he had been expecting a visitor. She smiled and reigned in her desire to gag at speaking jovially at muggles. Truly, they were the lowest of the low. The scum of this planet they inhabited.

She smoothed out her dress as she sat down and spotted a giggly man with blond curly hair. She barely didn’t recognize him in trousers. Walburga’s eyes strayed, she blushed, and looked away, coughing only slightly to clear her throat. He spotted her and shouted: ’’Walbie!’’ He crossed over to her quickly and sat down.

’’You’ve come to visit me.’’

’’Of course I have.’’ Walburga smiled.

’’Nobody else has come.’’ Abraxas sniffed.

’’Well. I am here.’’ Walburga said. She handed him a stack of letters that Orion had collected. ’’These people have written you.’’ There were some letters that had surprised Walburga, but she hadn’t opened them, of course, electing to respect this man’s privacy for once in her life.

Abraxas snatched the letters from her so quickly that she almost had whiplash from the movement. He filted through the letters, obviously looking for one in particular. Then when he reached the bottom of the letters he began anew, more slower this time to see if it had flown past his senses. It hadn’t. ’’Tom hasn’t written me? Have you not found him?’’

Walburga lied: ’’No, I haven’t found him. But I’m sure if he could write you that he would.’’ She only lied like this for Abraxas. He didn’t need to hear that Tom Riddle couldn’t care less about him; that he, in fact, abhorred Abraxas to such a capacity that he didn’t want to see him ever again. ’’He would tell you to keep at this treatment and get better-’’

’’I’m dyslexic.’’ Abraxas blurted out before Walburga could get another word in.

’’Good for you.’’ She didn’t know what else to say.

’’It’s different to when Tom’s told me about the condition. This is a professional.’’ Abraxas rubbed the back of his neck and looked at one letter in particular. His lips curled in a small, fond smile.

Walburga peered at the sender. Minerva McGonagall. ’’I’m surprised by that letter.’’ It discomforted her to speak of any mental problems or divergences. But talking gossip with Abraxas was something she could speak about. And why Minerva McGonagall would be Dumbledore wanted to write Abraxas Malfoy was hot gossip indeed. She leaned back in her chair and asked, this time more clearly: ’’Why has she written you?’’ Was there a story between them? One that Walburga didn’t know?

’’We’re friends.’’ Abraxas said. ’’She wrote me often while Tom was in Albania and I was making sense of the world. I suppose when he came back our friendship was halted. No doubt Dumbledore must have festered her mind with malicious thoughts about dear Tom. Therefore by association I was horrible to her, but it seems that she still likes me enough to check up on my health. Do people know why I’m here?’’

’’Orion and I do. Thoros and Elektra do. Your wife and her lover do.’’

Abraxas carefully opened the letter, reverently so because he was happy to be written. Furthermore he was happy that someone as funny and bold as Minnie the Cat had written him. ’’Minnie writes me to say she’s been taken on as a tenured professor. What a charming little thing!’’

Walburga grew uncomfortable, but when uncomfortable she grew bold, as well: ’’Do you think she fancies you? Odd Tomboy Minerva? She does have a penchant for falling for queer men. It’s quite unseemly.’’

Abraxas rolled his eyes. ’’I am married.’’

’’So is Orion yet he still fucks you.’’

’’I’ve got needs.’’ Abraxas said. ’’You never seemed to mind.’’

’’I don’t. It’s _you_.’’ Walburga allowed Abraxas quite a few many things. ’’Antoinette sleeps around with that lesbian of hers.’’

’’Lilith. Yes, we’re trying to convince Tom to marry her so we can all be together.’’

’’That will never work.’’ Walburga was aware of the state of Tom Riddle’s mind and she knew that the farthest thing from his mind was having a relationship. When one hadn’t even mended one’s heart, they found themselves incapable of loving another person. ’’Minerva is a curious girl, don’t you think?’’

’’She is lovely.’’ Abraxas said and brought the letter to his face to sniff it. Then he fanned it around himself like a fan. ’’Her perfume, on the other hand, is _cheap_.’’

’’I imagine a professor’s salary isn’t much.’’ Walburga added, then, her eyes sparking: ’’You like cheap people.’’

’’Are you trying to set me up with Minerva McGonagall?’’ Abraxas laughed, absurdly. ’’You do know I’m in love with Tom, right?’’

’’Yes, but, it isn’t...’’ Walburga couldn’t say it. She’d been too deep into the lie to tell Abraxas that she’d actually found Riddle. ’’Minerva’s a kind person, Abraxas. And it isn’t like you don’t like women.’’

’’I do.’’ Abraxas said. ’’But I could never cheat on Tom. It isn’t proper. I’m not that kind of person. Father’s always taught me to love with all of my heart.’’

’’Well, your father has never taught that to Riddle.’’ Walburga was going down a dangerous road. Abraxas’ eyes were clear, clearer than they had been in ages. Could she jeopardize all of this for the sake of truth? It was better for him to relapse while in a centre like this, wasn’t it? Than to do it when he’s out? Walburga rubbed her hands together anxiously, feeling bile travel up her throat. ’’I found him. He’d told me that he was in grief over another man.’’

Abraxas crumpled the letter in his hand. He let go of it post haste, his fingers twitching, his eyes beholding disbelief. ’’Why are you so cruel to everyone around you, Walburga?’’

Walburga didn’t fall for the jab. She inhaled and exhaled shakily. Her voice was firm, though, and wasn’t that a blessing? ’’He said that he didn’t want to see you. I asked him, begged him even, to come back to society – to write you a letter – to explain things to you – but he wouldn’t. I won’t lie to you Abraxas. Not anymore. It doesn’t become me. It doesn’t become us. He is grieving and it is the ugliest thing I have ever seen in my life. The sight of him chills me. I tried to get into his mind, but it is the stuff of nightmares. I feel, so overwhelmed by it. I cannot imagine what it may be like to have to live with that constantly. That disarray, that pain, that apathy – all of it is mixed and it shouldn’t be.’’

Abraxas’ hands sparked with magic and he asked, his voice pained with a deep, gut feeling that told him the name of this other man: ’’Who is he grieving, Walburga?’’

’’Nobby Leach.’’ Walburga said. She watched Abraxas’ face fall. She watched as he remembered everything that had transpired in the past. All of Tom’s comments, all of his outings. Abraxas closed his eyes and let out a small, horrified laugh at needing to only remember how close Tom and Nobby had been throughout their Hogwarts days. How strange it was that on the election of Nobby Leach (both times!) Tom had been gone. There had to be more moments, but Abraxas could not remember them. He had been with Eileen, stuffing his face with cocaine and trying to transport himself to a place that had to be better than the one he had lived in.

’’Abraxas,’’ Walburga spoke, her voice wasn’t cruel, but her words were, ’’Riddle told me that he didn’t want to see you. That he’d loved Leach and wanted all of us to leave him to his grief.’’

Abraxas’ head snapped up at those words. Not the ones where Tom had said to leave him alone, nor the ones telling Abraxas to go away. ’’He said that he loved him?’’ Abraxas whispered.

Walburga nodded. She gestured Minerva’s letter, next. ’’I know he’s never said that to you, Abraxas. I know that you’ve loved him with all of your heart and that you lifted him up every time that you could. He is difficult to love and it doesn’t surprise me that you would take up such a challenge onto yourself, but, please, there are so many easier people to love. So many decent and wonderful people who will love you back and say it and show it and not cause you this much pain.’’ Walburga needed to be careful, but it was like a dam had broken and a tidal wave of anger washed over her. ’’I have watched you all these decades trying to piece yourself anew each time he’d break your heart by either not wanting to show his heart to you or not having the tools to do so – but you deserve so much more than him, Abraxas. You deserve so much more than either he or I could give you. Or Antoinette for that matter. Please,’’ Walburga said, ’’please-’’

’’My mother was right.’’ Abraxas’ voice was broken and his face was barely holding back the tears, ’’I _am_ unlovable.’’

’’No,’’ Walburga could feel her heart twisting at this admission, ’’No, of course you aren’t unlovable, Abraxas. Just because Tom Riddle cannot love you does not mean that other people don’t love you. I love you, but not in the way that you need to be loved. I love you as a friend. As one of my dearest and closest friends.’’

’’What’s gotten you so sentimental?’’ Abraxas jeered her on. Quick to twist the knife when he felt one break through his heart. ’’You’ve always mocked me and hid under friendly pretences. Why do none of my so called friends come here if they love me as you say?’’

Walburga was just about to explain, to try and rationalize this, when Abraxas lifted his hands in the air and said, barely a whisper so nobody grew too alarmed because muggles were an easily frightened sort, ’’My mother was right about me. I truly ought to finish the job she’d started and off myself.’’

Walburga could feel her legs cut themselves off at those words. At such cold and true words. Abraxas meant them. He looked away, his short fingernails embedding into his forearms so hard that they broke through skin. ’’Don’t say something like that.’’

’’And really why the fuck shouldn’t I?’’ Abraxas hissed through his teeth, anger melting his visage into something unrecognizable. ’’Why the fuck shouldn’t I kill myself Walburga, when my life has no meaning anymore. Lucius exists and I have done my duty as a Malfoy to secure the family line. May the Gods grant him better luck in finding a wife than they have me. I have not been blessed, Walburga, I have been cursed to love men and women that will never look at me, that will only use me and discard me for other people that make their hearts sing.’’

’’All magical life is precious, Abraxas, do not tarnish it, please.’’ Walburga could feel his agony. She could feel his malcontent and the disorder raging inside of his heart like a volcanic eruption that threw the whole world into a world of ash and debris.

’’I know all magical life is precious, Walburga. We’ve been raised on this rhetoric and you can’t use it on me like I’m some child or someone who believes in that claptrap when fucking muggles are the only ones who’ve deigned to treat me of my addiction. All pure blood needs to be _saved_. There are so _few_ of us already. I am **_aware_** of how fearful you are in this world of blood and carnage that I’ve brought by killing Nobby Leach,’’ he took in a painful breath to steady his voice, but it turned more wobbly instead, ’’I am aware that there is nothing for me left in this world. Tell Tom that I am sorry for causing him such grief. That I am unbelievably sad that he has found love in someone else for such a short period of time. He deserves so much more than I could have offered him. It was not enough, I see this now. He could never find his footing in our world yet I pushed for him to surround himself around people who did not have his best interest at heart. I see this now,’’ his voice wobbled with tears, with pain so crisp and sharp that it could cut through the world itself, ’’And I am so sorry to have caused everyone so much misfortune just by existing and being unhappy. Tell Lucius that he needs to be happier than I am. That he shouldn’t look at me as an example, Walburga. Please, tell him to be kinder to himself.’’

Walburga choked. ’’You’ll tell him yourself.’’

Abraxas shook his head. He looked at the letters, filting through them again. ’’Tell Minerva-’’

’’I am not your OWL, Abraxas!’’ Walburga shouted. Her own eardrums almost popped at the force of it. Muggles turned around to look at them, but Walburga waved her wand around to have them all turn around and stop noticing them. She turned to Abraxas and pointed her wand at him. ’’Stop speaking like this. You’ll get out of here and you’ll come home where you shall tell everything you have to people in person.’’

’’I do not doubt that I could get out of here, sober minded. But I am telling you that is not going to be the case, Walburga.’’ Abraxas was leaning in his chair casually, as if admitting this next part was the most common and nonchalant thing to do in the whole wide world. ’’After you leave, because you cannot spend all of your time checking up on a sick man like me, I am going to go and find a toothbrush or whatever there is that’s such a length and I am going to use all of my wandless magical prowess into making it sharp. Then I’ll do the only thing left for me to do: I’ll slit my throat and die knowing that I’ve finally stopped being a burden for all of you.’’ With silver eyes, the kind Walburga had only ever seen in Abraxas and known that colour by her best friend, he looked into her black eyes and said: ’’There is nothing you can say that will change my mind. So, I implore you to tell my son that his father is not a good man and that he needs to find someone else to look up to. Anyone but me. I am a terrible human being, Walburga. A low life that my mother has seen through from the very beginning. Look.’’ Abraxas lifted the stack of letters. Most of them, Walburga saw, were Orion’s letters. There weren’t any from Antoinette. None from Tom. ’’Only Minerva has bothered to write me. Tom hasn’t. Neither has Thoros, only his wife that’s sent a pro forma letter to make sure that I don’t put our friendship and alliance in jeopardy. Everyone has discarded me Walburga. Why on earth should I not discard myself as well?’’

’’Because you-’’ Walburga stopped. ’’Do you hate yourself so much?’’

Abraxas nodded. There were no words left in him anymore.

Walburga nodded. She swished her wand over Abraxas before he had had a chance to cast a counter measure. **_’’Obliviate.’’_**

Walburga had made a grave error telling Abraxas about Nobby Leach and Tom Riddle. It had not been her place. She would not be responsible for taking Abraxas to the other side of the veil. Never.

His eyes glowed differently as her magic worked through him. His head lulled forward when she pulled away from his mind, having successfully taken out this meeting. She smoothed out her dress and tried to calm the tremors running through her. His eyes scanned her, his smile bloomed, and he asked her, giddily: ’’Oh, Walburga! You’ve come to visit me.’’

How could Walburga be so blind as to trust the smiles and the seemingly joyful voice coming out from this terrifyingly sad man in front of her? She sat in the chair and gestured to the letters on his side: ’’You got those.’’

’’Did Tom write me any?’’ He filted through the letters greedily, waiting and watching for that name to pop up.

’’No, ah. I haven’t managed to find him yet. He’s an elusive serpent that Riddle.’’

’’Oh, that’s a shame.’’ Abraxas shrugged. But then he laughed. ’’Look, Minerva’s written me!’’

’’We love you very much Abraxas.’’ Walburga said. Her voice not yet calmed from the terror dancing in her heart. ’’Thoros, Orion, and I. We love you so much. You’re one of us and we will always be by your side. Whatever you need, you need only ask us.’’

’’Get me out of here?’’ Abraxas joked. But at seeing how shaken she was still, he amended. ’’I know you love me. You’re my closest friends. I love you all as well.’’

Walburga couldn’t believe how blind she had been to Abraxas’ lies before. How self-centred she’d lived to not notice him drawing further and further away from them all. ’’Have you got any friends here? I know they’re muggles,’’ Walburga’s voice was full of pain at giving any credit to muggles, but Abraxas wouldn’t survive if he didn’t have anyone to be friends with, the social little creature that he was, ’’but still, they have their uses. Is there anyone here you can laugh with?’’

’’There’s Larry.’’ Abraxas didn’t miss a beat.

’’Who’s Larry?’’

’’We call him Larry Lazarus because he clinically died three times and came back. Imagine your heart stopping for a full minute on three different occasions and still surviving that? My goodness, my heart could never. Anyhow, Larry is a _magician_.’’ Abraxas smiled. ’’He’s very funny and charming and says that my hair looks ’boss’.’’

’’I’m happy you have someone here to laugh with.’’

’’What’s gotten into you?’’ Abraxas was re-reading Minerva’s letter to make sure he’d not misread it. ’’Did I tell you I’m dyslexic? It’s a bit different when a professional healer tells it to you. Makes you think that you aren’t that big of a screw up as you first imagined.’’ A forced smile. ’’Yay, I’ve just a learning disorder.’’

’’That’s nice.’’ Walburga said airily. ’’Nothing’s the matter with me. I just haven’t slept a lot lately. Regulus and Sirius are being menaces.’’

’’Oh, I imagine. I gave Lucius to the elves when he was very small. Nasty little miscreant. It didn’t help that Antoinette had had postpartum depression.’’

Walburga would take the things she’d heard this day to her grave. She endured a meeting with Abraxas and while they were parting she hugged him. He was much taller than she was and it was awkward and he laughed. ’’If you have something to tell me, Walbie, please, do so. I won’t bite your head off. Remember, you’ve always a friend in me.’’

’’I love you.’’

’’That ship has sailed.’’ Abraxas joked about with her. ’’I’m on S.S. Tom only.’’

Walburga cracked a smile. ’’Write me.’’

’’I do.’’ Abraxas said. ’’I write all of you, but none of you bloody reply.’’

Walburga was going to change that. ’’Just, focus on getting better. Don’t run away from rehab this time around and you’ll come back to us all sober. That’s all you need to concern yourself with. I’ll worry about everything else.’’

’’Don’t worry yourself too much. I don’t care much about that life.’’

Walburga had thought this admission to be a spoiled Malfoy heir whinging about responsibility and how much he wished to go to parties, but now she heard it as a man who didn’t care much for that life that was his life. Her tongue turned to ash.

’’Goodbye, Abraxas.’’

’’Goodbye, Walburga.’’ Abraxas waved.

* * *

  
Walburga returned home to Grimmauld Place only to find a letter waiting for her there. It wasn’t marked. But Orion had spelled it to see if there was anything untoward about it. There was not.

’’How is Abraxas?’’ Orion came by behind her and kissed her. Walburga was disgusted with herself too mucht o kiss him back. She opened the unmarked envelope and saw a letter that wasn’t signed, but she knew, from the bottom of her heart she knew, who had written and sent this letter.

_Dear Lady Black_

_If you are unable to do as I have instructed you, I will be forced into taking more severe measures, How does taking your husband’s life sound? I think you would be a fine black widow._

Walburga burnt the letter with her hand. She pushed herself away from Orion and told him that she was going to come back quickly. ’’I... I need to find that blasted man and bring him back.’’ She nearly tripped over herself on her way out of Grimmauld Place.

Armed with her wand and a maelstrom in her heart, Walburga went back to the swamp of nightmares.

* * *

  
Walburga arrived at the swamp with a concrete plan set into motion. She fingered her wand and moved through the trees, mindful of her step and what she might step on were she not more careful in her haste. A mongoose made of happiness or triumph (Walburga wasn’t a patronus exeprt) rested on her shoulders, nuzzled against her neck and dozing off until a moment came that it would need to attack a Dementor.

She did not find a single Dementor in the swamp. This unnerved her more than if she had found a sea of them to attack her. What she did find was somehow even more unnerving than the lack of Dementors.

Tom Riddle was sitting around a campfire of his creation. He was roasting something he’d caught. Walburga didn’t want to say that it looked like a person, because all meat looked weird to her, but that meat looked weird _er._

His eyes landed on hers. In his grasp was the Diary, the horcrux. It might have been the fire or it might have been Tom Riddle’s sheer abundance of dark magic he’d done, but his eyes were red as cinders.

’’What are you eating?’’ Walburga’s voice wavered. Her resolve diminished. She had not come here to see the inhumanity of Tom Riddle dance a jig in front of her.

’’What the dementors bring me. I’m not a picky eater.’’ There was a certain exhaustion well known in Walburga’s life that manifested itself in the man’s voice. For a moment she almost understood him. But then she reared back from such a thought. She did not need to understand Tom Riddle. She only needed to find a way through his thick skull to get him back to civilization so Mandy Leach stopped bloody threatening her.

Walburga inched closer. The mongoose on her shoulders continued to snore.

’’Sit down.’’

She sat down.

’’I won’t offer this to you. I haven’t eaten in two days.’’

She was happy with this. The last thing she needed was to eat anything of this sort.

The campfire continued to crackle and Walburga looked to it carefully. She glanced back at Voldemort, because Tom Riddle was a boy compared to this amalgam of trauma. She remembered the darkness festering in his mind from last time. She flung her hand into the fire and stuck it to her flesh, but it did not harm her. His curiosity grew and he asked her what the spell was that she’d used to have the fire leave her unharmed.

’’It’s from my family’s library.’’ Walburga taunted and dangled the Black library in front of a man who would forever be barred from it. Only those of Black blood could be given access and could give access to others. ’’If you come back with me, I shall grant you access to it.’’

’’Mandy must have something fierce on you if you are resorting to this.’’ It was odd how civil they were being. Walburga was tired. He was sad. This world was a mess.

’’She saved my life. Now I owe her my life. She told me to get you back to her or she’ll make me kill my husband.’’

’’Fancy that.’’ Voldemort whispered and watched so he didn’t burn the meat. ’’I didn’t know you loved people.’’

’’I can love. Everyone can love.’’ Walburga said. ’’You said you loved Leach. You love Mandy, still, don’t you?’’

’’Mandy and I loved Leach. I wouldn’t necessarily say we shared the same sort of love for each other that we had for him.’’

’’But you understand, don’t you? That there are different layers to love.’’ Walburga’s mongoose was flickering and she might as well let it disappear. ’’How can you not understand that Abraxas loves you dearly and yet your omission and your disregard for him has hurt him irreparably?’’

Voldemort sneered. The meat burnt. Walburga cursed. The world was scorching. ’’What is it to you what Abraxas and I have had? When all of our relationship you have tried to run me away. When you sided with Yvette to have me barred from his wedding. When you sided with Dumbledore at any possible moment to have me expelled.’’

’’I am siding with YOU now.’’ Walburga shouted. She was charged with magic and a fear so deep and visceral that had shaken her to her core and taught her that she had done this – that she had gotten sweet, dear Abraxas to the point he was in. That she was to blame just as much.

’’Is this another one of your little mind tricks?’’ Voldemort’s pride had not yet healed. ’’I am not falling for it again.’’

’’Why did you stay if you did not love him?’’ Walburga asked, too tired of hiding. ’’Do not patronize me, Tom Riddle. Lord Voldemort, however else you like to be called. Do not patronize someone who has been in your mind and seen it for what it is.’’

’’I stayed because I did not know what to do. He sent me letters in Albania that made me feel loved. That made me feel like I had someplace to return to after I had been exiled from Hogwarts. Wool’s was never an option to return to, you understand.’’ Walburga didn’t, but she wasn’t going to interrupt this bout of rare honesty from a tortured and dangerous creature in front of her. ’’And I wanted to be loved. I wanted to be loved to the point of not ever remembering what it was like not to have someone look at you with such reverence and patience. Abraxas was so patient with me always. When I’d flinch from his touch at first, when I would laugh off his compliments – he’d see them as the walls I’d grown up making and he’d wait for me to bring them down. I never truly brought them down.’’

’’You did for Nobby Leach.’’

’’Nobby Leach was _me_.’’

’’Pardon?’’ Walburga narrowed her eyes and cocked her head to the side inquisitively.

’’He was from London. He was from my social class. He experienced the same othered feeling I felt whenever I spoke with you. Whenever I spoke with Abraxas, he made me feel wrong. Not on purpose. He was just from that world and I was from another one. One that he did not understand at all. Nobby Leach was the closest thing I’d ever found to a happier version of myself. Of course I bloody hell fell in love with him. He was **_everything_**. The way he would effuse with joy and wonder was something I had come to marvel about him. He had so much ambition. The only reason why he wasn’t a Slytherin was his blood. I thought to myself, how differently my life would have gone had I not been in Slytherin. Had I been in Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff.’’

’’Not Gryffindor?’’

’’Let’s not.’’

Walburga snorted a laugh she tried to stifle down.

Voldemort took up the meat, finding it appropriately made, and tore into it. Walburga’s gut twisted.

’’I’ve eaten a heart once.’’ He said. ’’Never a brain. I’ve always wondered what a brain tasted like. Have you?’’

’’Never had the pleasure of thinking of such things.’’ Walburga settled on. ’’Are you going to leave this place ever?’’

’’I don’t think so.’’

’’Is there anything I can offer you? Because, you do know, that I have that debt you owe me from the Wizengamot, right?’’

’’I had wondered why you didn’t bring that up immediately.’’

’’I wanted to use it for something dire. But now I see that I might rather need to use to have you craft a love letter to Abraxas.’’

Nauseous colours coloured Voldemort’s face at the mental image. ’’Why are you so obsessed with a relationship that has died?’’

’’He’s threatening his life.’’ Walburga choked. She couldn’t keep what she’d learned at New Zealand all to herself and Voldemort wouldn’t ever tell anyone. He was much too implicated himself to do anything. ’’He’s so deliriously in love with you still. I had to wipe his memory.’’

’’That can’t be good for his brain development.’’

’’Also, he’s dyslexic.’’

’’I’ve been telling him that for decades.’’

’’And you’re depressed.’’

’’Careful now. Let’s not insult each other needlessly, Lady Black. I do have a horde of Dementors at my disposal.’’

’’It isn’t an insult.’’ Walburga cried. ’’It’s a clinical term.’’

’’Yes, yes. Have me institutionalized and shocked for your leisurely pleasure some other time when I’m not so silly to believe you.’’

Walburga stood up. Voldemort’s posture changed to accommodate the movement. He grew defensive and watched her like a hawk. ’’You are not thinking clearly. You need help. I am making you a one-time offer. Let me into your mind. I’ll craft a wall, or some makeshift fort, I shall see when I’m in there what’s in my ability.’’

’’Why? To disorient me?’’

’’It is not to disorient you. If anything it may give you piece of mind for you to be spoken to properly. You cannot be thinking clearly with all of that noise in your mind. Stop eating that bloody – I shan’t be subjected to cannibalism.’’

Voldemort savoured the bite and watched as Walburga squirmed in earnest at the sight. Finally, once he swallowed the bite he said: ’’It’s a bloody hog.’’

’’Oh.’’

’’Do you really think I’d just eat humans out and about?’’

’’Well, you’ve let yourself go quite a bit, so yes.’’

Voldemort looked at his tattered muggle clothes which he’d taken from some man he’d found being sucked and clawed apart by Dementors. ’’C’est haute couture.’’

Walburga finally got Voldemort to agree to that, using her Wizengamot debt to get him to agree. ’’If you do not wish to return, even after I do my best to help your mind gather its wits, then I am going to leave and have Mandy Leach do with me what she wants.’’

Voldemort made a remark under his breath and Walburga was not nearly as gentle in her intrusion as she could have been. ’’Oops.’’ She said when he winced and cursed her name and bloodline. ’’It’s slipped from me.’’

She slowly coursed through his mind and Voldemort could already feel the effects of her meddling in the sense that he felt more level headed and clear. The haze around him that was suffocating, the weight he just felt all around him diminished, if only slightly, if only temporarily. He looked at Walburga with clear discomfort at her doing something good for him. She was equally as disgruntled by this. Her idea of a central and core purpose was to make Tom Riddle as miserable as possible. This was a strange turn for her, too.

Finally, she asked him: ’’This is temporary. It won’t hold forever. You might get attacked, something might break the walls, something strong I admit because I am pretty good at mind magic, what with being a Black – but I am not a professional at dealing with this. So, go find Mandy and have her take a look. Maybe she’ll refer you to some of her colleagues-’’

And all that Voldemort thought was: ’clarity’ and ’this feels nice’ and ’doctors have never had my best interest at heart and god only knows I won’t go to a scam mind healer and show that level of vulnerability to them’ and ’this is fine enough’.

Walburga, lastly, asked him if he was going to come back to the world with her. Voldemort saw her outstretched hand, remembered that purebloods would rather have their hands cut off than to exhibit muggle gestures, and had to admit that he did love having Walburga Black rely on him for something. ’’Fine.’’ He said and took her hand. ’’But only since you asked so nicely.’’

Walburga bit down on a retort that was at the tip of her tongue and forced on a smile.

* * *

Hermione was just about to get into all of this with her mentor, when she realised, that, sadly, the man had fucking fallen asleep on her. She tried to throttle him awake, but he wouldn’t budge. And the Darkness began to creep up on her. While alone, Hermione glanced at the figure draped in shadow, she couldn’t help but feel afraid.

’’Hello.’’

’’That was you that Walburga saw.’’

’’It was me. I’m something much bigger now. Something with more gravitas definitely. I do have to hand it to Tom for not having issues so big they could fit into a bloody quidditch world cup tournament that have enabled me to continue prospering.’’

Hermione nudged at her mentor and whispered: ’’Wake the fuck up, sir.’’

Sir did not, in fact, wake the fuck up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> howdy, i'm tired
> 
> nice to meet y'all 
> 
> the next time i post i may have a spouse and children   
> though it could be tomorrow also   
> we might just never know


	60. Oblivescence I

There were a lot of things wrong with whatever memory was playing out between Hermione and the looming Darkness (more of a metaphor for something, really, rather than an actual all-encompassing being of terror and destruction that wrought havoc onto Tom Riddle’s mind), but Hermione’s day seemed to be just getting worse without anyone actively even trying. It was just that easy. Making her life hell had become as easy as scoring an O in Divination with Trelawney there giving full points to whoever said that they dreamt of misfortune. For those who couldn’t tell, Hermione was still a little bitter about Divination’s mere existence.

Never mind that, though. Hermione found herself incapable of screaming her lungs out as the Darkness approached. She stepped away from the tall, twisty figure of shadow. It cocked its head to the side and grinned a smile full of tar. ’’What a poor, unfortunate soul you’ve become; stranded in a mind that does not belong to anyone anymore.’’

’’What did you do with him?’’ Hermione could not even find her mentor’s sleeping form by her side. It had seeped into the ground and disappeared.

’’He’s escaped us both by falling asleep, gone to the depths even I do not venture into. The recesses of his mind that never interested my reach.’’ The Darkness crouched down then, and placed its murky palms on its knees, giving Hermione (who had fallen to her knees in despair and wretched, retching horror) a look that was keenly interested in her thoughts. ’’He has left you to my mercy.’’

’’No.’’ Hermione’s voice shifted from horrified to terrified. ’’No.’’ She said the word louder and louder until it felt like a blanket that could protect her. ’’I do not believe he would do that. You’re just twisting things against us again. How you’ve been doing to him for ages.’’

’’Dear, _dear_ child. I am not some foreign concept that needs to be weeded out.’’ The Darkness said and placed one of those hands on Hermione’s shoulder, feeding her form with ice and fear until she choked on her own tears with anguish. ’’I am not some sort of virus that has infiltrated this mind. This is my mind. I have always been here, but I have grown like a child does. And every child outgrows its parents one way or another. I have evolved and demanded more for myself.’’ For the first time since arriving in her mentor’s mind, Hermione saw the Darkness shed its shadow to reveal a man that, for only a moment, Hermione thought was her mentor. But the facial expressions were wrong. ’’Can you not see, Hermione, that I am as much a part of him as anyone else? That he has given up everything and I am here, attempting to keep things work-’’

’’You are lying.’’ Hermione said. There was no room for anything else other than what Hermione believed in. ’’You are not trying to keep things working, nor are you here to help Montgomery – Tom – Vol –’’

’’I rather believe he goes by Tom. Trust me, I’m his _brain_.’’

’’Parasite.’’ Hermione spat at the thing, irking it.

’’Ohoho, don’t be like that, now.’’ The voice hissed, cutting through the air. Annoyed now that he was not getting anywhere with Hermione. ’’Remember, you are a guest and I am the only one who can help you out.’’

’’I am NOT going to leave without him.’’ Hermione balled her hands into tight fists and glared up at the Darkness, finding in herself bravery that would make even Godric Gryffindor in awe. ’’So, you can do whatever you want to me, but I am going to find him and help him get out of here.’’ She glared, even through the shakes and tremors the Darkenss’ presence brought her. Hermione thought of little Tom Riddle, slightly-taller Tom Riddle, and her mentor – she looked at the Darkness and through gritted teeth said: ’’Fuck you.’’

The Darkness nodded. It draped itself back into shadow and stalked up to her quickly, its footsteps resounding like that of a battle General in combat boots. Sludge grabbed her neck and cut air from her airflow. ’’Then I shall break you.’’ Hermione tried to kick her way out of this, finding that her strength from before was diminished, but the only thing she could think of that had changed was that before, her mentor had bore the brunt of the Darkness’ attention. ’’Such a shame, Hermione, as I had wanted to help you leave here in one piece.’’ It put more pressure on her windpipe as their surroundings shifted into a new manner of torture, ’’Instead you’ve chosen **_this_**.’’

* * *

A graveyard was a place for kindness. Anything less than that was considered a grievous, bastardized insult that no one deserved.

Lord Voldemort stood in front of a magical archway leading to a place that oozed with grief. His fingers twitched for his wand, deciding that he was under attack before any attack came for him, already feeling that his mind was not well, but that for the good of his own survival he would need to put that away and not think about.

He could not move past the archway and into the magical graveyard. A morbid pest like him had wondered, in his youth riddled with death and falling bombs, where it was that mages got buried. Not everyone could have a place for their dead how the Malfoys and the Blacks and the Lestranges did. Where were the public figures buried, where were young men and women who had never accomplished anything worthwhile put to rest? Where would his grave be? What did they do to the bodies of orphans without a knut to their name?

The ancient archway was made of sturdy, unshaken stone that preceded the Statute of Secrecy. Engraved in its stone were runes that denoted a heavy message full of history. This was done as if to remind each and every one of the mages that might be privy to this location that the world was not one to forget. That in this place rested a history they were not taught in Hogwarts. But even though it had never been taught to them, it did not mean that they could not learn it.

These stones and headstones and graves all beheld a person with a story and history just as intense, just as vivid and interesting as the story one held in their heart.

Voldemort remembered the graveyard near the Catholic Church. He’d gone there a couple of times with the orphans to pay respects to Mr. Cole. Not Mrs. Cole’s Mr Cole. No, the first Mr. Cole that had loved children (some said a bit too much, but there was no evidence and Voldemort didn’t enjoy ruminating over the past of old, bigoted men) and had first founded Woolwich’s orphanage. Wool’s for short. His daughter was Mrs. Cole and she’d made them all scrub his headstone until it sparkled. She made sure that if they dilly dallied they wouldn’t be eating. Tom Riddle had yet to find a better motivation to do anything.

He’d once gone to a Protestant graveyard and found that it wasn’t sinful, that it was as equally morbid as the Catholic one and that when everyone died they were the same. Nobby Leach was next to him. They were fourteen and one of them was full of glee. The other one was too scared by the sight of the graves to be gleeful.

’’My grandpa’s over there with grandma.’’ Leach pointed with his finger, rudely because one wasn’t supposed to point and Tom had thought that children with parents ought to be more polite than this, but he kept his words in between his teeth and watched Leach grow more animated as the summer sun scorched above them. ’’And my da’s going to be buried in that place over there with mum prolly.’’ Leach said ’prolly’ and Abraxas elongated the word into something obscene as he drawled out in his posh manner ’pro-ba-bly’. ’’I’ll prolly be buried in the same graveyard. It’s only right, innit?’’

Tom had nodded, his stomach twisting at the thought of death and not being conscious of the world around him. How could he die when he had only begun living three years ago when he’d gone to Hogwarts for the very first time? A thought strangled him that he would live in a world like the muggles did. He did not want to think about where he might be buried. ’’Why are we here?’’

’’I’m trying to convert you to Protestantism, of course!’’ Leach joked.

Tom mustered enough strength to smile. ’’No, thank you. I’ll leave you to your protestant graveyards.’’

Leach pushed him to tease him. He laughed and called him a strange fellow, but _his_ fellow nonetheless. Tom thought about girls and boys and men and women and how despicable they looked when dead. How would Leach look like when he’d die? Would his eyes bulge? Would his skin turn yellow? His insides churned and he nearly threw up over his own shoes – never Leach’s – he was much too polite for a child with no parents.

Voldemort moved from under the archway and found that he begged the world for kindness that he did not feel befitted him. If ever a time came for him to find a god to pray to, this would be it. His heart screeched like a badly played violin, or a viola, really, it was hard to tell at times. Tears sprang in his eyes and he blinked them away. There was a quiet in his mind if not his chest. Sometimes this was all a man could be. Content in his discontent. Fully aware that he did not deserve anything more.

These graves weren’t marked with crosses how the ones Tom was used to seeing were. They were differently shaped, giving thanks to their family and their blood, putting emphasis on the gods of their familial practise rather than some unifying god. Some did not have headstones at all. Some only had names that were tattered and worn with time and war.

Above him were shields so strong that Merlin himself could not take them down. There was something about disturbing the dead that was against all manner of sanity. Something about the disrespect one had towards Death that would paint a target on their back, how the Peverell brothers had been hunted, one by one, until they’d been slain for their disrespect. Voldemort had called them foolish to think they could be so bold against Death. That they should not have challenged Death to a duel in the first place. That it was none of their business at all to antagonize one so arcane and eldritch.

Leach had told him he’d not understood the story at all. Mandy had said that it was a silly little pagan tale to pass the time and that there wasn’t any point in believing in it. Tom, Tom who believed in fairy tales and had hoped that the Fair Folk might take him and tell him he was not odd and satanic how Mrs. Cole had said, that Tom had told them that one didn’t disturb the dead and Death if one wished to live long enough to become _somebody_.

Voldemort moved past more graves. He was wearing one of Orion’s old and faded robes. Walburga had supplied him with clothes and told him that he was one of their own in this war and that she’d help him as much as she could without her stomach acid killing her. Apparently being nice wasn’t quite what her stomach was used to.

He couldn’t blame her. Neither could Voldemort stomach this existence, yet for the sake of some inexplicable reason he fought in a war against Dumbledore. Not Mandy, not muggleborns, not halfbloods, or creatures, or squibs. He was pitted against Dumbledore only. His allies were purebloods only in this regard. He sang to them for his supper and twisted their minds into believing he was on their side, but his heart broke apart each time he thought of how putrid they were. How this was not a war meant for him, how he had barely survived the one previous. This was too early for a war.

Gradually he halted, his footsteps slowed until they stopped altogether in front of a gravestone with a name that had made Voldemort feel like he was **_home_**. As if paralysed with the most potent petrificus totalus he stood in front of it, taking in with which care someone (his closest, his most put together) had chosen the marble, the stone, the way which to engrave the grave with a name infused by the love of thousands, with the hope of tens of thousands.

Nobby Leach had not been buried in a protestant graveyard like his family had been. They had disowned him when he’d chosen a catholic girl to wed and burn the whole world of noxious blood to the ground, to rebuild something beautiful, something wondrous with a halfblooded boy with no soul left in his heart.

His hand gently caressed the gravestone. It was the only one with a cross on it in its vicinity. Voldemort spotted doves and peacocks and cats as symbols of gods, but Leach’s symbol, even in death, seemed to stick out as an eyesore.

What a coward he was, Voldemort berated himself and his weakness, to leave Mandy Leach to this planning. To leave her alone when they had been a trio of musketeers, never living long enough to add a fourth into their already confusing mix. She was wise to mistrust him, then, and especially now.

’’Your wife doesn’t like me very much.’’ Voldemort scrounged up all the strength he had to speak to a gravestone, trying his hardest not to imagine the skeleton rotting underneath marble and feet upon feet of dirt infused with ravenous worms.

Nobby would reply along the lines of: Well, you ARE hard to like. I’ve had lots of practise, yaknow.’’

’’I lived in a swamp full of Dementors. I almost died. Walburga Black kissed me, though I cannot say for certain if this transpired or if I was out of it.’’

Nobby would cry laugh at this, all of it. How hilarious, he would say finally after laughing for a painfully long time, I never knew she fancied you. Is her goose Geb still kicking? She set it on me once in the middle of the Ministry, remember!

’’I’ve begun a war, destroying the people you campaigned alongside with, the people you fought for. They fight for you now and I am tasked with cutting them down to survive. None of it makes sense. I wish I could just disappear, but I would not be happy anywhere.’’

Voldemort did not know how Nobby would reply here, too disgusted, too scared, too worried, too loving to give a proper answer.

His fingers curled around the gravestone. He looked, horribly sick to his stomach even though he hadn’t eaten in days, looked and looked and looked into the letters swirling on his tended grave. ’’I ruin everything I come into contact with. You are not above it. Is Heaven real? I know I will not go there, not with the things I am, nor the things I have done – but is it real? At least for you. I would want you not to suffer wherever you are. Or,’’ his voice broke, ’’or is there really nothingness? Is there no peace, but just an end to all of this? Did praying help you at all?’’

No response came, of course. Voldemort had never thought that this was going to be a two way conversation, but he forced himself to come here and face Nobby Leach’s grave. His dearest friend, his only friend.

How lonesome an existence like his was, when even Walburga Black pitied him enough to keep trying to be his friend. She held worry for her sons in her eyes and nothing but loathing for everyone beneath her. What a contradictory tale it was to see her attempt to push aside her difference with Voldemort in order to keep an eye on him and his dwindling and diminishing mental health. He had yet to come to Malfoy Manor, electing instead to room inside Grimmauld Place with a dysfunctional family that somehow, against all manner of expectation, did not exceed the abusive nature of the Malfoy home.

Lucius was so soft spoken and worried about doing anything bad and unacceptable that he only nodded his head and never spoke. Sirius, on the other hand, was a hellion that demanded to know answers to every damned question he deigned to ask. Voldemort preferred answering such questions to thinking about his life and the things that plagued his nights each night. Walburga had told him to drink dreamless sleep because her youngest son was scared. Voldemort hadn’t frightened children since he was sixteen years old. Mrs. Cole was an adult and loved to terrify children. Voldemort wondered if he could really throw up three times in one day. Walburga had seemed to sense his disgust at the potion for she told him that she could move Regulus to a different room instead. ’’No,’’ he’d said, ’’I shall drink the Dreamless Sleep.’’ The very last thing he ever wanted to become was Mrs. Cole, if even to a child as privileged and coddled as Regulus Black.

In the dead of night in a public graveyard where souls were said to speak to the most unfortunate, Lord Voldemort heard rustling of fabric, a hitch in breath, and assured footsteps. He turned and aimed his wand at the intruder, putting to a test all of his intuition and paranoia, said to have festered his mind into a weapon of unseemly power.

A part of him, this one that still clung onto the fact that perhaps not everyone was out to get him, told him that it was another mourner come to say hello to their loved one. That he did not need to shoot them dead like a rabbit in winter.

’’Lumos.’’

This part of him couldn’t be more wrong.

Albus Dumbledore’s wand aimed at him.

’’Hello, Tom.’’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I moved countries so I honestly don't know when I will update

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Abraxas Malfoy Gets Married](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26163439) by [handschuhmaus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/handschuhmaus/pseuds/handschuhmaus)




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